


A Tale of Two Mages

by ImaginAries



Category: Dragon Age, Dragon Age: Origins
Genre: Anders escape, Circle Escape, Dragon Age - Freeform, F/M, Friendship, Gen, relationship
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-21
Updated: 2015-10-01
Packaged: 2017-12-06 01:10:28
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 15
Words: 53,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/729952
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ImaginAries/pseuds/ImaginAries
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>During one of his many escapes from the Circle in Ferelden, Anders finds himself in the Frostback Mountains. There, he mistakenly comes across an elvhen apostate who has been surviving on her own for quite some time. A tale of two mages meeting by chance- pre-Origins storyline.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. I.

**Author's Note:**

> You can now listen to the soundtrack to this fic here: https://8tracks.com/doctor-brew84/tale-of-two-mages

The sunlight reaching across the Frostback Mountains rode the snow-capped peaks with the intention of penetrating every possible nook and cranny.  The range extended the length between the boundaries of Ferelden and the Orlesian Empire. It housed a variety of flora, fauna, and some things more unnaturally dark. In general, the thought of crossing the Frostbacks without due cause was repelled. It was a treacherous region posing the risk of rockslides, avalanches, and unexpected storms. If those conditions were not enough to thwart an adventurer, then the dangerous, biting cold might. In addition to this any path not carved out by the surface dwarf merchants were quite questionable.

The dwarves of the Merchants Guild did not ever seem to mind hauling their supplies through, but even that happened just twice per year. Aside from the occasional straggling lyrium peddler, or threatening wildlife there were few who would take up residence in the crevices of the inhospitable mountains.

In one such cave nestled high into the cold peaks there was _someone_ who made a point to settle in. A moderately sized chamber served the purpose of “humble abode” to a young elven woman slumbering on the hard, pebbled floor.

Her slender figure lay prone on its backside. She was swaddled in threadbare, faded red wool and remained oblivious to all around her while she slept. Her hair fanned out about her head like a raven halo, and her eyes were tightly shut as though purposely trying to keep from waking. A meager fire had been lit the previous night, but had long since turned to ash. The lack of warmth from the pit, however, had done nothing to rouse her.

It was not until the rustling sound of a heavy-footed creature disturbing the brush at the cave’s opening met her tapered ears that the elf bolted upright. She was in a state of sudden awareness; the hairs on the back of her neck prickled in her alarm. Tossing the coverlet aside she rolled to her feet and snatched up a simple wood-wrought staff bearing a green stone at the clawed top. Amber eyes, wide with panic, darted to the maw of the cavern.

An angular figure, draped in a well-worn hooded cloak, emerged from the tall plants blocking the view of the world outside. Hands batted at the leaves clinging to the cloak before the figure managed to free itself. The next steps were taken toward the elven woman at a brisk pace.

“Now, now! No need for that!” A male voice spoke from the shade of the hood, hands flying up and defensively showing outward palms. “I’m not going to hurt you. In fact, I had no idea this little cavern was already occupied. Had I known, I would have knocked first. How rude of me, right? Sorry about that. Er…”

“ _Ar’din nuvenin na’din!”_  The elf replied shortly, eyes narrowing at the intruder as she stepped forward. She hoped she was as menacing as she felt. This man was a great deal taller than she, though he did not _seem_ threatening.

Nevertheless, an apostate should never take chances.

Fight or flight instinct surged through her body, and backed into a corner she would choose to fight. With any luck the situation would never escalate that far.

“Err…” The man stumbled backwards, risking movement to pull the hood back and reveal his face to her.

A human with dusty blond hair, warm brown eyes, and stubble on an arguably handsome face, stared back at the elf mage.

“I’m not _quite_ sure what you said, but it didn’t sound very welcoming. Look, I get the idea- you don’t want me here. I get it, and I wish I could just _leave_ , but it is bloody cold. If I could just warm up-oh! Andraste’s knickers, could you please _relax_ a moment?!”

The man shuffled back another few steps as the clawed end of the woman’s staff jabbed at his chest in warning. She stared him down, as though daring him to just try coming closer.

Instead, the traveler sighed, exhaustion lining his face, and he turned his hands palms up. “I’m the same as you.”

Skeptically, the elf watched as the stranger held his hands toward her. Cupping them together he raised his brows as a faint, blue glow grew from the center of them, swelling until it was the size of a wisp. Magical tendrils danced about his fingers as he gave the startled woman a knowing smile.

“What are the odds that one apostate might find another out here in the middle of nowhere? Please, I promise you have nothing to fear. I wouldn’t dare harm a fellow mage without cause.”

The magic dissipated with a small wave of his fingers. Pointing to the staff still directed at his chest, the blond man then made an earnest request.

“Mind lowering that? It’s rude to point. Unless we’re comparing size; in which case I can show you mine if you’re showing me yours.”

Lifting her gaze to the staff strapped to the man’s back the elf felt a bit foolish for not having noticed it sooner. With some reluctance she turned her own staff so that the base rested on the cave floor.

“How did you find this place?” She inquired with a slight lilt to her soft voice which suggested her origins were not of Ferelden. Slowly circling her impromptu guest, the elf tried to make sense of his presence.

The man shrugged his shoulders and gave her a sheepish smile. “I’m not entirely sure! I suppose you might call it dumb luck, though I was looking for a place to take shelter for a while. So maybe it was out of necessity.” His eyes followed the woman’s figure as she moved about him then stood before him once again. “I’m Anders, by the way.”

Tucking a strand of tangled black hair behind a delicately pointed ear the elf snorted softly. She didn’t ask for his name. Frankly, she didn’t care what this human was called. If he could just stumble into her home this way, by complete accident no less, then what would stop anyone else from doing the same? Granted, foot traffic was sparse in the Frostbacks, and nary a living creature ever found its way inside the cavern, but if this man was an apostate it could mean trouble.

“Where did you come from?”

Anders winced. He had hoped the subject wouldn’t come up. “You know, it’s customary to return the gesture when somebody introduces themselves.”

Sighing, visibly perturbed by the small detail of social protocol, the woman appeased him. “My name is Emeline.”

“ _Orlesian_?” Anders kept his smile, trying to play at small talk. “I thought I detected an affect to that pretty voice. Didn’t think it sounded Ferelden. No wonder you’re hiding- I don’t think these people have forgiven the war, even after all these years.”

Emeline stared at him, her face completely deadpan. “Does it matter where I am from if you do not answer my question? It is not very fair to answer a question with another question. You are in my home.”

“Ah.” Anders bowed his head. Well. She had him there. “Right, if it must be said, then I am not from around here. Not quite.”

“Then where?” Emeline demanded, hands tightening around her twisted staff.

“The Anderfels, if you must know. That’s me…Anders of the Anderfels. Just making my way through, trying to stay out of trouble. It’s obviously going well, wouldn’t you say?” He flashed what he hoped was a charming grin. “But if it’s all the same to you, I don’t think anyone followed me. You’re the first living soul I’ve seen in a solid week. Thank Andraste you’re a looker. It’s astonishing how many ugly mugs are out in the world.”

Unmoved by the flirtatious jesting, and not thoroughly convinced that this man had no sinister plans, Emeline allowed Anders some benefit of the doubt. Nobody had passed by her cavern in the whole seven months she’d lived within it; the elf was certain the trail was aptly covered. An army of Templars, no matter how small, would have made much more noise than this one human. She heard no sign of such an approach, so she decided to trust Anders spoke the truth.

“You are just passing through?” Emeline questioned, multitasking by clearing the ash from the fire pit while keeping a staggered watch on the other mage. “And you chose to come through the Frostbacks? Nobody does such a thing.”

Anders began to pace, keeping his distance lest Emeline unexpectedly take a flying leap at him. "Funny story, that. Considering you're here. But, yes, _who_ would do such a thing?" Coming closer, slowly, he crouched on the opposite side of the stone-ringed pit where Emeline attempted to restart a fire. The apostate woman did not hide well her frustration as she consistently failed at getting a proper spark from the flint rock.

Chuckling in amusement, Anders watched in wonder as the woman gave an exasperated groan. The glare Emeline shot him caused him to regret laughing at her.

“What’s so funny?”

“I could help you with that.” Anders gestured to the pit.

Emeline frowned, knowing she might be sitting there for Creators knew how long, and wind up too frustrated to care about starting the fire anymore. Resting back on her knees she motioned to the man to go on with his assistance.

Anders stretched his hands out, taking the tools from Emeline and began to work the flint closer to the dried kindling.

“Will you let me rest here?” He asked while he worked. “I won’t be a burden, and it wouldn’t be long.”

The start of a protest tried to pry itself from Emeline’s lips, but Anders interrupted her.

“Just for the night. Please. You have no idea how tired I am. I could use just one night’s rest. It’s the least you could do for me after I did this for you.” His cheeky smile faded into something truly desperate; his fatigue began to shadow his angular face.

Already, the cave grew warmer, pinching out the damp chill from outside. Emeline pressed her mouth into a tight, thin line, deliberating her response. Her first inclination was to kick this shem out. However, some small thought pleaded with her, arguing that the company might be nice. Emeline was apt enough in magic for self-defense if necessary. She could extinguish this mage, dispose of him, and continue her existence as though Anders had never been.

How hard could it be if he, too, couldn’t call fire by magic?

Relenting, the elf nodded. “One day. It is all I will give you. You have a place to sleep, and in the morning you must leave.”

Anders smiled, his expression sincerely lighting up his features. “That is all I ask.”


	2. II.

The evening had come with the slowness of molasses over ice. Conversation had proved terse and sparse between the pair of apostates, coming only when it seemed necessary. Even then, it was nothing more than a short exchange of trivial words, avoiding the depth of anything thought-provoking, or meaningful. Emeline had remained cautious as she'd kept her staff never further than an arm's reach away. In spite of Anders' reassurances that he had no desires to harm her, the elf found it difficult to place any trust in him.

When the sun, at last, had come to hang low enough in the horizon beyond the Frostbacks Emeline suggested they both get some rest. There would be an early morning ahead, and Anders would need the energy to take him wherever he was headed. The blond mage had quipped that the elf was eager to be rid of him. Emeline had stared at him, wordlessly, and with the coldness of the very peaks sheltering them. After making it abundantly clear that they were to sleep on opposite sides of the fire- and don't he dare try to get closer, or else he'd lose every appendage important to him- the elf nestled beneath her blanket and tried for sleep.

By the time morning came the fire had already been reduced to smoldering embers and smoke. Anders snored heavily while Emeline lay awake. Restlessly, she rolled to her back and an annoyed huff pushed past her lips. She hadn't managed to sleep a wink.

Her eyes settled on the sleeping human man as disdain filled her. How * _dare_ * this stranger make himself so comfortable that he would sleep better than she did? On top of charming his way into spending the night, at that!

"Rude." Emeline muttered. She abruptly sat up, gathered her blanket into a rolled bunch, and whipped it at Anders' head.

Anders' feet jumped beneath his cloak when the fabric landed across his face. Snorting awake, the mage employed his hands to remove the blanket while his bleary-eyed face gazed lazily toward the elf woman.

"Sorry. Was I snoring?"

"As if you were some sort of...ghastly beast." Emeline all but spat as her nose crinkled in her disgust. "If I had known the sounds of your sleep would keep me up all night, you would have been shown the door!"

"You don't have a door." Anders pointed out with a cheeky grin. He stood to stretch his sore muscles, barely avoiding the worn pillow chucked at him."You're not a very gracious hostess."

"Shut up." Emeline snapped as she, too, moved to her feet to relieve her stiff limbs.

The human mage chuckled, though was a bit taken aback by the elf's words. "Tell me, Emeline, are you always so rude to people, or am I just special?"

"I do not see many people to begin with to make such a distinction." She answered while crossing to the far interior wall of the cavern. There hung a stash of dried herbs, flowers, and strips of meat curing against the rocky surface.

At this, Anders folded his arms across his lean chest, feigning understanding in the guise of sarcasm. "Ooh, so the fact that you are a recluse is cause to forgive such manners. I get it, now. All is right with the world, again."

Spinning on her heels, anger flashing in honey colored eyes, Emeline stalked toward her unwanted guest until they were mere inches apart. "Forgive me for not appreciating a stranger who has trespassed into * _my_ * home! Next time I shall try my best to be more accommodating when another potential threat waltzes in and begs me to stay the evening!"

Anders gaped at the elf, regretting his words, though he did not offer an apology. He should know better. Any apostate had not one single reason to live with peace of mind. Any apostate knew better to not live in fear that any stranger might mean the end of his or her freedom.

He turned to his belongings: a small pack containing a change of clothing, heel of bread, wedge of cheese, herbs, and some coin; his staff, and his cloak. Wordlessly, Anders began to methodically secure everything to its place on his person. As his fingers worked on strapping his staff to his back, he glanced to the fuming elf mage. Leaving now would be best, lest he manage to set off another explosion.

Before he could reach the short tunnel which lead toward the cave opening Emeline's voice halted Anders in his tracks.

"Perhaps you should first eat something. Take this." She held out two strips of cured jerky from an unidentifiable source.

"You, er...didn't poison it, did you?" The dried meat seemed off, somehow. Or maybe it was trick of the greenish-grey lighting in the cave. Either way, the food hardly appeared appetizing, regardless of what his stomach told him.

"If you'd rather starve..." Emeline shrugged and retracted her arm.

"No, no! Can't look a gift horse in the mouth, right?" Though, she might bite you just for good measure, Anders thought as he reluctantly accepted the meager rations. "Well, then! I'm off! It has been... * _interesting_ * making your acquaintance, Emeline, and should I ever stumble across any future caves of yours I'll be sure pass them by."

Emeline merely watched as the man's figure began to make its journey up the stony corridor to the cave's exit.

Thank the Creators, she silently praised, now her solitary routine would return to normal.

Except, she noted, for the fact that the other mage was making a hasty retreat back into the cavern.

"Andraste's flaming knickers, have you seen what it looks like out there?!" Anders motioned hurriedly towards the outside. "There's snow!"

Narrowing her eyes and pitching her eyebrows closer together, Emeline glared at the man as though he had said something completely stupid. "We are in the mountains. There was snow yesterday." Was this a ploy?  "Don't tell me you cannot handle a bit of snow."

"A BIT, sure, but--" Anders covered the short distance between them quickly, grasped the elf's thin wrist, and fairly dragged her to his vantage point. "Does *that* look like a 'bit' to you?"

 _“Elgar’nan_." She breathed, her shock evident on her delicate features.

A thick layer of heavy, wet snow lay across every craggy surface, bending all plant life beneath an icy sheen. The winds howled and shrieked viciously as swirls of snow billowed past the cave's mouth. Some had dusted the inside of the tunnel, causing it to sparkle even in the dull lighting. The sky, which had been bright and clear the previous day, hung low, dark with pregnant clouds prepared to birth their fury.

Slipping her arm away from Anders' grasp the young elf woman cleared her throat. "Good luck out there."

" _What?!_ " The blond whirled around in astonishment as his voice hit half an octave higher than normal. "You aren't seriously making me leave! Not in this!"

"Can't I?" Emeline quietly challenged as she made a point of successfully rekindling the fire in the stone pit.

Anders stammered, one hand upturned toward the brutal weather, his jaw slack as he struggled to find words. "I-well-yes, you *could*, but that's so..so * _cruel_ *! I'll freeze to death before I make it a hundred meters."

"Oh, please." Amber eyes danced with the reflection of flames. "Try not to be so dramatic. You should make it at least thrice as far before you succumb to the chill." She smirked. "That is, of course, if your feet do not betray you to a cliff first sending you plummeting to your utterly horrible death."

"And *I'm* the dramatic one?" Anders murmured. Upon hearing those words he begun to seriously contemplate taking his chances with the elements. There was no way this woman was not a bit...touched.

A vague smile played Emeline's lips, going either unnoticed by the human, or only adding to the guise of her being slightly sadistic. While she would rather be rid of this unwanted company she could not actually turn him out. No matter how socially stunted she had become over her years alone she would not bear also becoming so ruthless. However, that did not mean she wouldn't amuse herself at the other mage's expense.

Continuing her charade, Emeline gestured in the direction of the cave mouth. "I do not see your backside getting farther away. Why do you dawdle so?"

"Oh, I don't know, perhaps it is because I do not want to * _die_ *." Anders nearly shouted. "Are you * _mad_ *? That's it, isn't it? No other apostate, ever in my history of meeting other apostates, has ever willingly cast me out into danger. You, miss, are completely off your head!"

Ignoring the insulting accusations the elf began to laugh. It was a silent kind of laugh that overtook her figure with trembling shoulders and a slight ache in the belly. Covering her face with her palms she bent forward, trying to recompose herself.

This had sent the wrong message to Anders who threw his hands into the air out of exasperation. Wonderful. Now he'd truly upset her.

"Don't...don't * _cry_ *, come now. I didn't really mean all that. You're…you're not crazy. Maybe slightly wrong in the head after living as a hermit, but you’re not crazy. No." He gingerly began to pat her shoulder, wondering if he'd cause her to lash out. "There, there. It's just that I rather fancy staying alive-"

"You half-witted thing, I'm not crying!" Emeline interjected, revealing her face to prove this.

Confused, Anders ceased his semi-comforting shoulder patting. Warm, concerned brown eyes turned icy as he leapt to his feet.

"You were having me on!"

"Oh, so you * _are_ * clever, after all." Emeline sniffed, also getting to her feet. "Of course I was having you on. I haven't seen another living soul in months. A girl has to snatch the chance for fun wherever the opportunity presents itself."

"That is *so* very, very mean." Anders grumped. "Honestly, I thought you were going to send me to my death."

"You could have fought me for this place." She spoke frankly, as though it would have been completely understandable had he done just that.

"No." He answered softly. "No, I wouldn't have."

Not giving Emeline the chance to respond Anders sighed. "So, I don't have to go?"

She mulled over her reply for a moment. "On a condition."

"Why does this not surprise me? Alright. Name it."

The elven apostate motioned grandly to their surroundings. "There are leaks, and crevices, and breaches in the walls where water and a variant of other... *things* have, and may come through. Help me repair these, keep the fire burning in the pit, and you may stay until the storm passes."

Anders wasted no time placing his personal effects back into the floor. "Great! Where do we start?"


	3. III.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Inspiration can be such a fickle mistress. Thankfully, a few role playing sessions, and getting to wander the world of Thedas via Dragon Age: Inquisition has put me back on track!

The following two days measured out in all work, and no play. The storm wreaking havoc across the mountains had shown little sign of relenting, which posed an entirely new problem: firewood had become scarce.  Most of what Emeline had stockpiled had dwindled to a bare bones supply in hers, and Anders’ efforts to keep a comfortable temperature inside the cave’s chamber. The elf mage had lamented that if they could not soon gather more, then the morbid jest of Anders freezing to death she had made two days prior would become a reality for them both. Emeline resigned herself to the fact that even if either of them could conjure forth a single plume of flame, they had nothing to set it to, and maintaining such magic would quickly become tiresome.

Emeline huddled near the stone pit with her hands hovering over the dying fire. She had been quiet for some time and was seemingly transfixed by her thoughts.  Anders had continued working on filling in holes in the cavern walls. He smeared a thick paste over a particularly gaping nook, though his fervor of working to keep warm had begun to lessen. His pace had become so mechanical and absent-minded that the layer of thick paste had started to drip in globs to the ground.

“Well.” The elf finally said as she slowly pushed to her feet. “I’m going.”

Anders ceased his plastering and used the toe of one boot to scrape a gob off of the other. “Er, going where, exactly?” His gaze followed Emeline as she crossed over to a waist-high stalagmite.

A heavy, green velvet cloak lined with ram skin lay draped over the rocky formation. The elven mage picked it up, pausing a moment to run her fingers over the texture as she spoke. “We need kindling. The storm will not cease anytime soon, so I must do _something_.”

“You can’t go out there! Are you insane?” Anders argued, having tossed aside the metal spatula he’d been using as a plastering tool.

Shrugging, Emeline looked to him. Her chestnut-colored eyes reflected resignation. “Given I have allowed you to stay with me this long I think the question of my sanity has passed the point of debate.”

She sighed, and swept the cloak about her slender shoulders before working on pinning it in place. Her hand disappeared beneath a fold of the fabric where an inside pocket had been sewed in; shortly thereafter, she produced a pair of nug-skin leather gloves. As she tugged them on she gave Anders another glance. “Either we wait out the snow and wind, or I go out there for firewood. We run the risk of hypothermia and frostbite both ways, but if I am going to die then I will at least have tried to survive.”

Shaking his head, and wondering about the soundness of his own mind, Anders moved to where his cloak laid crumpled near the fire pit. He began to pull it over his shoulders, but Emeline’s voice cut through to him before he could.

“ _Fenedhis,_ what do you think you are doing?”

Brown eyes widened beneath raised brows as the human mage halted mid-action. He peered to the elf earnestly. “Pulling my weight? That _was_ part of our agreement, was it not?”

“It was, yes, but you will stay here.” Emeline insisted, almost crossly. She strode toward him and tore the cloak from his grasp before dropping it to the cave floor. “I have been here for a while. I know my way through these passages more than you do. Visibility is low to none. It will only slow me down if I must nanny you in every step you take. You will stay.”

Anders gaped at the woman, amazed that she would turn down a sincere offer for help. “Is this a secret clause in our verbal ‘help-me-until-the-storm-passes-and-you-get-to-live’ contract? Because I must say I wish I had heard the fine print. Maker knows what else you’ve thrown in there.”

Emeline rolled her eyes. “No. It is because your dead body will be much harder to loot if you tumble down into a precipice.”

He studied her for a breath’s span- she was resolute in her decision, but it did not stop Anders from feeling that he should try to wear her down so he might tag along.  Regardless of how well Emeline might know the wilderness of the cave’s immediate surroundings it did not seem _right_ that she take this risk alone.

It was as though the elf could sense that Anders was going to say more on the matter, because she lifted a gloved hand to him as though signaling at a dog. “Just stay here, _shem_.”

The elf made her way out, stooping briefly to pick up a sturdy wicker basket near the entrance, and then was gone- swallowed up by the gusting powdery white outside. Anders remained in place, still debating on whether or not he should follow Emeline anyway. The deciding factor turned out to be that he had already taken too long, and he’d probably have no idea of which direction she had gone. He’d stay, wait, and try to pass the time.

Trudging back to the pathetic fire fighting to continue burning, Anders rolled up his cloak and used it for a cushion to sit upon. He folded his lanky legs one tucked beneath the other, and pulled his small backpack into his lap. The contents were hardly anything worth bragging about, but being a mage did not afford him luxuries. Whatever he kept with him was valuable for one reason, or another. 

Tracing a fingertip, red and raw from the progressing chill, over a bronzed buckle of the knapsack Anders took a minute to think things over. It would be convenient should Emeline allow him to semi-permanently share this space with her, but he had to weigh the chances of it all ending poorly. Over the past couple of days the elf had not asked him where he came from, or why he had chosen to wander so deep into the Frostbacks. There were few places scattered through the mountain range that were welcoming enough to set up residence, and none were likely to openly accept an apostate.  Hiding one’s magic was difficult enough, at times- doing so long-term could sometimes be impossible.

He exhaled slowly and stared downward. His long chin tucked up against his chest as he fumbled with the straps of the sack. Once they were undone Anders rummaged through the effects inside. He pushed over a rolled up bundle of clothing- something he felt he ought to change into, soon, before what he currently wore was able to walk on its own- and pulled out a small, satin pillow.

It was a ridiculous little thing; a gaudy shade of what might have once been salmon pink, tiny baubles and sequins lining the edges- some of which had gone missing, and frayed, golden tassels fringed each corner. There were unexplained stains which had long ago seeped into the fabric, and altogether the pillow was a ghastly sight. Nevertheless, Anders adored it. It was his most prized possession, and he always made a point that it came along on his travels. There were times when the ugly accessory was the only thing that could bring him any amount of comfort. Though he did not need it right then, the mage still hugged it close.  If he concentrated hard enough, closed his eyes tightly enough, and inhaled deeply enough, maybe he could just catch the lingering scent of-

His eyelids snapped open as a faint, shrill sound carried into the cavern. Anders set the pillow down and straightened his back, straining to listen more closely. The wind tore through the dry brush at the front of the cave, but the sound he’d heard had been different. His heartbeat seemed too loud, echoing into his ears, hearing the rush of his blood through his veins- why did everything become so amplified when anxious? Slowly, the mage rose to his feet, still keeping an ear cocked toward the narrow opening.

The sound came, again. It was unmistakably a panicked scream that made a sudden decrescendo.

“Emeline.” Anders realized, whispering the other apostate’s name to himself. He leapt into action, and made fast work of tugging on his cloak. Snatching up the staff he’d kept leaning against a bumpy wall he jogged through the short tunnel.

A blast of wind sprayed an icy flurry directly into his face the moment Anders stepped outside. The insides of his nose froze within the next two breaths, and he had to fight just to stand completely upright.  Anders could hardly see an arm’s length ahead; the blue glow casting from the magically-imbued stone on his staff did little to cut through the veil of blowing snow.

“ _Emeline!_ ” He called as loudly as he could manage, though his voice was quickly carried away. He may as well have been mute, but continued to call the elven woman’s name, pleading that she might actually hear him.

Logically, Anders knew that the elf could not have been far when he’d heard her screams. However, walking a few feet in the north or south path in front of the cave in either direction had shown no results. He started to believe that perhaps he had only been imagining things until his next footstep nearly sent him careening over a sharp drop.  Anders shot a hand out to grasp at a jutting crag in the mountainside and pulled himself close to it, avoiding a nasty fall.

Emeline was correct when she had told him, earlier, that she knew the area better than Anders did. That put aside, Anders was more than certain there had not been a drop just there, before. An entire section of the narrow path had completely disappeared, and he dreaded to find what might be at the bottom.

He practiced extreme caution in crouching and inched forward slowly to peer over the edge. Snow swirled around his head, irritating his eyes as he leaned further and angled his staff downward. With some focus Anders managed a slightly stronger light from the crystal. The drop was not as far as he’d feared- twenty feet, or so- but it was enough to endanger someone who did not expect to fall. At the bottom, between the newly formed crevices a slim figure sprawled face down in the ice-coated rubble.

“Andraste’s bloody knickers…” Anders cursed, looking around for any easy way to get to Emeline.

Luck was on his side, though only just.

The mage strapped the staff securely to his back, and then turned around onto his belly. The cold seeped through his thin clothing, though he ignored it and continued to lower himself, feet first, over the drop.  The tips of his toes caught a small foothold almost a full body-length down, and he found that it was the first of several.  Using the steep slope to his advantage Anders descended as hastily as his numbed appendages would allow.

Minutes later he reached the bottom of the cleft. He dropped to his knees beside Emeline’s still form and began to dig the snow away from her face. A long gash marred her right temple, leaving a crimson stain on the snowy ground. On closer assessment Anders could see that one of the elf’s arms was twisted at an odd angle. At the end of her other arm he noted that her fingers were outstretched in the direction of the woven basket. It was precariously balanced at another ledge, but filled to the top with kindling.

Careful not to bump her, Anders leaned across Emeline’s body and pulled the basket by its handle closer to them. If he was going to save her, they would need every advantage- and that included heat. Returning his attention to the elven mage the man lightly ran his fingers over her neck trying to feel for any distress. Finding none, he decided the best thing to do was move her.  

Anders hopped to his feet and unbuckled the straps holding his staff against his back. Pulling the leather pieces out of their riveted loops he re-tied them into knots at either end of the rod, adjusting them until they were of appropriate length. He went to Emeline, knelt again and worked slowly to hoist her up in piggy back fashion. Using the leather thong which laced the ‘V’ of his shirt Anders secured the elf’s wrists around his neck.  He prayed, though not normally was he the praying sort, that the slight angle of the incline would be enough to keep her from choking him as he climbed. Finally, he angled his staff to sit at the small of his back, just beneath Emeline’s thighs, and slipped each of his arms through the straps.

He hoped it would hold. The leather was worn with age, and use, but the elf was not terribly heavy. They might make it back to the ledge without incident, though Anders knew he’d have to move slowly.  After hanging the basket of kindling, which felt heavier than it should, in the crook of one arm he pushed himself to stand and went to the rocky slope.  

His movements were severely limited, as the straps holding his staff, and Emeline, restricted how far he could reach. Even so, Anders found he could still catch each hold with some effort, as well as a bit of creative bending. By the time he reached the top his chest was heaving, aching from the exertion and cold. A light sheen of sweat covered his brow in spite of winter’s chill. His muscles screamed that it was too much work, and it was truly the last of his strength which brought he, and Emeline, back into the safety of the cave.

It took considerably less time to undo the makeshift sling than it did to put it together, and within moment Anders had Emeline lying across her blanket. He could not gauge how cold she was by touch, as his own body’s temperature had yet to adjust from being out of the wind, but he knew the tinge of blue to her lips and ears was not a good sign. Anders clumsily removed the wet velvet cloak from around the elf’s body, and then grabbed the pillow he had left out, tucking it beneath her head. The clothes from the knapsack were next. Even though the fire dwindled down to burning embers it had kept the linen warmer than what Emeline was wearing.

Anders rolled his eyes to the staggered stalactites of the cavern ceiling and shook his head. The woman could kill him later for undressing her, though perhaps she would understand it was all to save her life.

Having changed Emeline into his own, back-up clothing Anders moved to the next order of business: reigniting the fire. The woven basket he retrieved revealed larger chunks of wood at the bottom, one of which was immediately patted dry and placed at the base of the flickering embers. He sought out the driest tinder possible, arranging them so they caught aflame.  Warmth and feeling returned to his fingers, though they burned with the sensation of thawing. It hurt, but Anders was grateful that he wouldn’t likely lose any of them.

Going back to Emeline’s side Anders swept a concerned gaze over her. She shivered, still, and while color was returning to her cheeks the tips of her ears were still moderately blue. There was also that nasty cut along the side of her head, and the matter of her probable broken arm. Bending over the elven woman Anders moved his palm over her injured temple. He closed his eyes, seeking out the Fade before drawing forth a tendril of its power to aid him.

Healing had always been Anders’ strong suit- he had the compassion for it, or so he was told, and a sincere enthusiasm for studying its particular school of magic.  It came more easily to him than anything else, and so repairing the injury on Emeline’s forehead was, by far, the simplest task he’d faced in the last hour. Her arm was a different matter. Anders lacked the strength to heal bone and even the most adept Healers could not always do it. It was a problem which required a surgeon, but alas! The Frostbacks were fresh out of those.

Obligated to find some way to set the injury, Anders found two sticks in the woven basket that were straight enough to brace the arm. Using the same straps from his staff he did his best to set Emeline’s limb, wincing when he heard the whimper that escaped her lips. She did not wake in spite of the pain her sleeping face reflected.  There were no more apparent wounds, and so Anders decided he had done more than enough. Anything else would be left entirely up to the Maker, for all the good it would do them.

Trembling with exhaustion and cold, Anders settled himself at a safe distance with his back to the fire. Reaching forward he carefully pulled Emeline to him so that she was propped against his thin chest, and he wrapped his arms around her, mindful of her injury. He would withstand her shouting when she awoke- _if_ she awoke- in the morning if it meant neither of them would have frozen solid in the night. It was not long before sleep took him, and his cheek rested atop the raven softness of her hair.


	4. IV.

Three days crept past without Emeline fully rousing from her sleep. During the long hours of waiting, Anders had grown increasingly concerned for the elf’s physical state. Those who sustained head injuries and failed to wake often did not survive, and the blond mage started to contemplate his options. He had taken pains to ensure that his unplanned charge remained hydrated and warm, but nearing the end of the second night he wondered if he was doing enough.

The brutality of the blizzard had calmed sometime during the afternoon one day after Anders had discovered Emeline’s body at the bottom of the crevice. He took the opportunity to explore the immediate regions of the mountainside, bringing in snow to melt for water, and searching for small animals that might be venturing out after taking shelter from the storm.  While he was hardly a hunter, Anders knew if he did not find and kill _something_ he would inevitably starve. A few unfortunate rabbits met an early demise, becoming a veritable feast for the mage.  While he was able to eat, however, the best he could ever do for Emeline was give her a broth made from the bones of the small animals.

Occasionally, the elf mage had opened her eyes to cast them, unfocused and searching, anywhere that she might be able to see without moving her head. Her mouth would move as though trying to speak, but no sound ever came out. Whenever Anders had tried to encourage her to stay awake, speaking softly so as not to jar her between the state of sleep and wakefulness. It was always in vain however, as she would soon close her eyes and drift away once more.

When the third evening had come, and the warmest since the morning Anders had tried to first leave, the notion of perhaps seeking out one of the small farming villages at the bottom of the mountains seemed appealing. He knew it would pose great risk, both in moving Emeline without knowing the full extent of her injuries, and in revealing their identities as apostates. Anders had already exhausted what supply of healing poultices the elf had stored; while there were both dried and fresh elfroot on hand he had no idea of how to craft them into potions.  If there was a way he could bring the elven mage down the mountain while the temperature remained fair, Anders figured there may be a chance of finding a surgeon to further examine her.  The other option remained, but in good conscious he couldn’t even consider the idea of simply abandoning Emeline to chance.

He resigned himself to the former, and set to packing whatever useful items would fit into his backpack.  What worried him more was _how_ he was going to safely carry the elf without causing more damage, and while he fretted over it, muttering under his breath, a nearly indistinguishable sound reached his ears. It was but a whimper, and Anders had to remain quite still as he strained to listen. Another, quiet groan departed from the woman behind him, and he whirled around to find that Emeline had awoken. She struggled to sit upright even when Anders crossed to her side trying to convince her to do anything but that.

“Don’t strain yourself.” he cautioned, kneeling at her side. Gently grasping the elf’s good elbow Anders helped her steadily sit straight. His brown eyes searched her tan, freckled face for any sign of disorientation. “How do you feel?”

Emeline swallowed thickly, her mouth and throat so parched they felt as though someone had stuffed her full of cotton.  Her head swam, feeling heavy in one place yet too light in another. “…confused.” She rasped her voice hoarse from days of disuse.  Even the dim light of the fire caused sharp pain behind her amber eyes. “What happened?”

Anders reached for the water skin he had kept near, bringing it up to the woman’s dried lips so that could drink. She glared at him, even weakened as she was, at having to be coddled like an infant. Lifting her hand to take the skein from the blond Emeline drank deeply, greedily sucking down the cool water as she felt it washing through her insides.

“Easy!” Anders warned, chuckling as he pulled the water away from her, prying her fingers away as though she was a child clinging to an object she ought not to have. “You’ll make your stomach cramp.”

The elven apostate attempted to moisten her lips, thirst sated for the time being. She stared pointedly at the man before her, waiting for him to explain why she felt as though she’d been brought back from the dead.

“You fell.” He offered, though supposed she would prefer the tale in full. “The path just down a ways from the cave collapsed, or I assume it’s what happened. I heard you shout, but the blowing snow had caused such a white-out that it took some time to find you. I nearly toppled over the edge, myself, but there you were at the bottom.”

He regaled her how he’d brought her back to the safety of the cavern, and how he tried to treat her injuries to the best of his abilities. Emeline glanced down to her arm set and cradled close to her body, then realized that her headache was due to the last thing she remembered- as she fell, skidding down the side of the mountain, a rather large chunk of ice disguised as snow had smashed into her forehead. She recalled darkness, and the muffled sounds of someone trying to speak with her. Beyond that, however, everything went fuzzy.

Grimacing, Emeline tried to shift her weight. Every nerve from the waist down tingled in complaint as her limbs had gotten used to lying perfectly still. Her gaze swept across the cavern as she took notice of the dimpled walls bare of herbs, tools, and a few of her belongings. Anders’ open rucksack lay not too far from them and she wrinkled her nose, ire rising within her.

“ _Fenedhis lasa,”_ she cursed in disbelief. “Were you planning to rob me of my things and leave me to die, _shemlen?”_

Puzzled by the elf’s sudden change in attitude Anders turned to look at the backpack. Of course it would seem as though he had planned to make off with Emeline’s things, though she assumed wrong.

“No, no!” He jumped to his feet with his hands waving defensively in front of him. The elf stared daggers into the blonde’s eyes as he attempted to explain. “You’ve been down for three full days. Emeline, I was beginning to believe you weren’t going to awaken on your own. I’d done all that I could-“

“Creators…three days?” Emeline frowned as she stared up at the other mage.  When his countenance transitioned from defensive to somber the elf unsteadily pushed up to her feet. Her back felt tight with a dull ache spreading to her legs; her broken arm throbbed in complaint of being jostled as she stood.

Anders sighed and then motioned to the pack he had begun to fill. “I _was not_ robbing you. I thought, maybe, you’d have a better chance elsewhere, so I planned to try and move you.  It wasn’t the best plan, admittedly, but I couldn’t simply leave you here in the condition you were in.”

“Why not?” she challenged, though honest to goodness curiosity got the best of her.

“What do you mean ‘why not’?” The blond raised a brow in question, as though it was absurd to even consider any other option.

“Who am I to you? I am nobody- just the apostate who happened to be here when you stumbled into this cave.” Emeline tilted her head as her amber eyes lay upon him, unblinking and full of skepticism. “What reason would you possibly have to help me?”

Chuffing and stammering for words out of incredulity at her questioning, Anders finally managed to spit out an answer. “Because it’s what a decent person would do.  Think whatever you wish of me, but I like to believe I am at least that. Would you rather I had left you for dead? You _have_ already accused me of making an attempt- maybe I should have.”

The elven woman’s eyes narrowed. “And had you succeeded in dragging us both down the mountain to find help you would have compromised my freedom.”

“Not just yours!” Anders cried out, frustrated as he knelt over the rucksack to empty it of anything belonging to the woman. “It doesn’t matter, anyway. You are awake, and you seem like you’ll survive just fine. The storm ended days ago, so I will just take my own things then get out of your way.”

Emeline parted her lips as though to speak though the outburst from the other mage had rendered her stunned, and speechless.  He was practically a stranger to her, and none had ever shown her very much kindness. Whether it was due to most humans viewing elves so lowly, or that people as a whole were not as generous as they liked to pretend she never knew. It remained that she had trouble comprehending the notion that Anders cared enough for someone he hardly knew to laboriously keep them alive.  The elf circled slowly toward his bent figure, seeing that his face was tinged red in his upset state.

He did not acknowledge Emeline’s approach with a look, but rather spoke in a calmer tone as his packing slowed. “You are fooling yourself if you believe that _this_ is living freely, you know. There is nothing liberating about remaining hidden from the rest of the world, and wondering if anyone who comes across you might pose a threat.”

Standing, Anders picked up the satchel and worked the clasps into place before slinging it over his shoulder.  His light brown eyes flickered to the elf as he searched for something to say. “Well. Take care of yourself.” With a curt nod he made for the mouth of the cavern.

Feeling her stubborn resolve begin to weaken, Emeline took stiff steps after the blonde man. He could have left her to whatever fate she had- to death, if the Creators willed it so. Instead, he had taken any measures possible to ensure that death did not find her. It was more than Emeline felt she deserved after treating Anders so callously.

“Where will you go?” She called out gingerly with an intonation holding an apology she did not know quite how to present.

Anders stopped in his tracks and considered this, his back still to her. “I hadn’t thought that far, to be perfectly honest.”

“Creators, you’re hopeless.” Emeline muttered. “How do you travel without any destination?”

With a snort the blond turned toward her. “That’s the easiest part, really. If I’m on the move then I am bound to end up _somewhere_ , aren’t I? How can you stay put waiting to be found? That’s the real question. I could have been anyone who happened in on you.”

Pushing an errant strand of dark hair from her freckled face, the elven apostate pressed her lips together tightly as she measured out the weight of his point. What kind of life was this, indeed? She had transformed into some cave-dwelling creature of habit when it was never meant to turn out this way. Some time ago things were quite different. Her goal had not been to become a hermit, but to find her true place in this world.

“Suppose that you did have a plan,” Emeline prompted. “What do you figure it would be?”

“Hmm.” Anders mulled this over and paced a short length inside of the chamber of the cavern. “The only place I might consider settling is Tevinter. Mages are self-governed; the Circle is employed as a means to learn, not as a virtual prison.” He stopped, pivoting on his heel to face her. “Still, being a mage in the Imperium is not always enough- or so I’ve heard. As it is anywhere, they have their own set of sordid affairs. Still, it _could_ be better than always running.”

Wrinkling her nose Emeline shook her head in vigorous disagreement. “ _No._ In my own travels I have heard elves are taken as slaves for terrible things. I could never bring myself to such a place.”

Amused, Anders let his backpack slip to the ground as he leaned against the large stalagmite normally used as a place to hang their cloaks. “So then where would you choose to go? You said you have traveled- there must have been some purpose.”

Without missing a beat Emeline found herself answering. “I would find the clan my mother left and seek refuge with them.”

“But?” The blond pried.

The elf’s slender shoulders slumped slightly. “I do not know where they are, and it is likely they know nothing of me- or…do not think of me. It is a long story; I will not bore you with it. Do not let me keep you any longer.” Emeline hobbled towards the weakening fire and crouched to throw more kindling on it.

“Keep me? You’ve been trying to throw me out since I first intruded upon your _impeccably_ decorated home.” Anders shot back in good humor.

“Yet there you still stand.” Emeline smirked, turning her tawny eyes to him. She met his gaze, holding it for a moment until her stomach gurgled so embarrassingly loud that she had to clasp her good hand over it tightly and stared down at it in surprise.

“It has been a few days since you’ve last eaten,” Anders reminded her, his voice’s tenor belying the smile across his face. He wondered how many times he would be nearly on his way, only to end up remaining. “What say I stay _one_ more night? Just in case you fall back into some concussed stupor. I’ll fix something to eat and you can bore me with your story of how you came to find this delightful little cave of yours.”

Despite herself, Emeline felt a smile pulling at her mouth and she nodded to his offer. She owed him her life, and now he was offering to further aid her even when it was clearly no longer necessary.  Perhaps it was time for her to try trusting somebody other than herself. Anders was maybe a good place to start learning. What harm could come from having an ally?

Within a half an hour a clear stew of rabbit and root salvaged from beneath a thick layer of snow was bubbling over the fire. Anders stirred the crude pot, hoping that there was enough to sate whatever appetite the woman had built up after having fasted for three days.

“So, tell me, Emeline.” Anders started as he tested the temperature of the broth before doling out even servings into small, chipped bowls supplied by Emeline. “How _does_ a pretty elf like you find herself in the peaks of the Frostbacks?”

Brows furrowing in slight annoyance the elf took her share of the stew. “I’m already letting you stay here another night; you don’t need to try flattering me further.”

Anders laughed heartily, his eyes lighting up at Emeline’s chagrin at his choice of words. “So I shouldn’t pay compliments. I get it.” Dimming down to a quiet chuckle the blonde continued. “You’re Orlesian, though, aren’t you?”

Emeline gave him a sullen look as she thought out where to begin her tale. In the time it took her to do so she spooned nearly half the bowl’s contents into her mouth.  Anders patiently waited and gave her the time to eat whatever she needed to feel strong enough. It was, apparently, a weighted subject for the elf.

“I am from Orlais in having been born and raised there. It is a little more complicated than that, however. My heritage is Dalish.”

“Dalish?” Anders interjected. “So that’s what you meant by clans. I’ve heard rumors of them- stories told by the elves in—“he paused, clearing his throat, “in my travels. Those I have come across. Your parents, then?”

Emeline quickly polished off her share of the stew and unashamedly leaned forward to ladle more into the bowl.  “They are more than rumors, or so I hope. Otherwise, I have spent more than half of my life invested in lies.” She worked on eating more of her meal in between words, completely unaware of the amazed look playing over Anders’ angular features. “My mother left her clan shortly after learning she was with child. She, and my father had carried on a secret relationship- something which took careful sneaking about to do, as hardly anything escapes the notice of those who spend much time together. My father was the First to the clan’s Keeper- an apprentice who would one day take over the guidance of their people. They have magical talent, and learn what secrets and knowledge has been passed down over time.”

Anders set his bowl aside. It was still half full, but he had grown tired of rabbit by any means of preparation and Emeline’s story had already piqued his interest. “Magic is accepted by the Dalish?”

“To an extent, yes.” The elf set down her bowl, now empty. Her stomach no longer complained, and she felt content enough to fully tell this story. “There is an understood rule in place that there should be no more than a few magically talented elves per clan. It was explained to me that this was to avoid drawing the attention of Templars whilst traveling. If any clan exceeds this limit, then those with magic are either sent to another clan, or are abandoned.”

“Abandoned? Most come into their magic at such a young age- how could they just _leave_ a child to fend for himself?” Anders shook his head, not wishing to even consider the idea.

Emeline smiled grimly. “How, indeed. My father had told my mother that the clan was already at its limit. He reminded her of the probability that this child- that I- would develop the same talents as he. They argued over what could happen, and she refused to give me up to another clan- or to the wilderness. She ran away, and after months of arduous traveling had found herself south, in Orlais. By this time she was heavy in the belly, and greatly malnourished. She collapsed in front of the gates of a chateau in Val Royeaux.”

“Quite a way to introduce oneself.” Anders quipped, leaning in with his elbows resting on his legs and hands folded together.

The elf exhaled through her nose as though trying to suppress a laugh. She had been told the story of how her mother selflessly left the Dalish to save her child from abandonment, and it never ceased to amaze Emeline that she had still wound up alone.

“The chateau belonged to Duchess Giselle Beauchamp- quite an honorable woman in that time. When she learned that a pregnant elven woman with tattoos marking her face had fainted at the gates the duchess sent for a midwife, and a surgeon. She had my mother brought inside to be tended to properly. All of this splendor for a nameless elf. After I had been born and my mother was well enough to appropriately care for me the duchess came to her with an offer: a chance to live as a servant within the Chateau de Fleur.”

“Offered a chance?” Anders spat, offended _for_ Emeline’s mother. “How does someone go about doing that? Andraste’s tits, that’s got to take some gall. ‘In exchange for being a generous person and coming to your much needed rescue you may now dedicate a life of servitude to me. You’re welcome’.” He mocked with disgust etched into his face.

The smart remark earned a sharp glare from the raven-haired elf sitting across the fire from him. “Not at all. Duchess Beauchamp sympathized with the elves. Her entire staff had come from the alienage in Halamshiral. She fed us well, supplied us with anything we needed, ensured an education, and paid us wages that _shem_ servants only dreamt to see. Of all the places my mother could have mistakenly found she had found the best. You will _not_ speak of the duchess as though she can be so easily lumped in with nobles who never gave a sniff about anyone else.”  Her amber eyes flashed with thinly veiled anger. “For all I was given, I was more than pleased to work for her.”

“I’m…sorry.” Anders managed to find his voice, his cheeks burning as he felt shamed for his assumptions. Having led out a life of oppression the mages were sometimes easily comparable to the unjust treatment of elves. It could be argued, however, that even as second-class citizens the elves living as servants to others were better off than any mage living within a Circle. “You’re right, that was unfair of me. Please, go on.”

Emeline’s ire fell away at the blonde’s sincerity. She gazed sadly into the fire’s dancing flames as though she could view her memories amidst them. “My mother told me of the Dalish often when I was small. She taught me their words, their beliefs, and what tales they had preserved over time. As the years passed, however, it seemed she more easily forgot her origins.”

Raising his eyes to meet hers, Anders encouraged the woman to continue. She did so, her voice filled with such a medley of emotion as she revealed the day she had mistakenly frosted over and shattered the picture window in her sleeping quarters. She was ten years old when it happened, and when the duchess learned of it she immediately made arrangements for a tutor from Montsimmard’s Circle to tend to Emeline’s magical education. It took a great deal of bribery to the First Enchanter and Knight-Captain, but so revered was Duchess Beauchamp – and so influential- that they grudgingly allowed it.

Emeline’s teacher, a middle-aged elven man called Erevas,  spent the following four years showing her how to apply focus, control, and willpower against demonic possession. As part of the duchess’ bargain with the Circle, however, he would not teach her any practical application of magic for fear she may one day use it to her advantage. It had to be enough that Emeline could resist the use of her talents. The time which passed did so without any incident until three days following her fourteenth birthday.

The duchess sent Emeline on an errand, as she often would, to fetch bolts of Antivan silks from a shop within the bustling square of Val Royeaux. While waiting for the shop keep to bring out the order she was approached by a nobleman’s son. She spoke of the incident with such ferocity that it was evident to Anders the incident had burned a deep scar in the woman’s memory.

“He was some years older than I, and he threw at me every racial slur he knew: ‘knife-ear’, ‘halla-rider’, ‘rabbit’. Still, I ignored his negative advances. Because I would not react the boy assaulted me in a…rather inappropriate fashion. No patron would come to my aid. I lost my patience, and in turn my control. I gave him such a shock that to this day I do not know whether he lived or died- nor do I care.” Her hands clenched tightly into fists causing her knuckles to whiten. “I ran back to the chateau- to my mother, and to the duchess.

“I was…in tears. So disappointed that I’d let my secret be seen- that I had compromised us all in a moment of weakness. I begged to my mother that we had to leave, but she would not think of it.” Emeline clenched her jaw at the recollection her eyes brimming as she felt gutted all over again, years later. “So pampered was my mother at this point that she simply refused to leave the life she had. She would turn me to the Templars should they come looking for me.”

“The very person who had left her clan in order to protect you from leaving her side.” Anders nearly felt his heart break in two for the betrayal dealt to Emeline. He deeply empathized with her for having to feel such a thing.

“Yes.” She blinked away the tears that so wanted to spill over. “The duchess felt so helpless. She truly cared for me, and often would tell me that- if she had been able to bear children she would have wished for them to be much like me. As precocious as I was, I found it laughable, but…she had become more a mother to me than my own blood. I was given the option of running away on my own. She supplied me with food, coin, and warm clothing before advising me to seek out the Dalish I had been told so much about so that I may _never_ have to see the inside of a Circle.”

“How long ago was this?”

Emeline brushed over her cheeks with the backs of her hands as she successfully fought back her roiling emotions. “Seven years.”

“In all this time, you’ve never found them?” Anders’ tone had become soft and sympathetic; he couldn’t fully understand what her life must have been from that point forward.

She shot him a withering stare. “Yes, Anders, I’ve _found_ them. I just thought that living in a cave would be beneficial to my health.”

Recognizing the sarcasm dripping in the timbre of her voice the blonde man gestured to her broken arm and spoke wryly. “This is obviously working out well for you.” A slow grin moved over his lips and he raised his hands to catch the pillow that Emeline whipped at him. He’d completely forgotten to pack it, given it had been beneath the woman’s head. “Why are you always _throwing_ things at me? Raised by Orlesian nobility, Maker’s ass. They forgot to teach you manners.”

Emeline rolled her eyes though a small smile played over her tanned face. “So my etiquette is rusty. Who do I have to impress?”

Anders chuckled, and found himself pleased that the elf had something of a sense of humor for all of her guarded demeanor. “So what do you intend to do? Stay here forever?”

Shrugging, the elf found herself reaching a point of resignation. “I had searched anywhere I heard tell of aravels and herds of halla being sighted. I stowed away on a small trade ship to the Free Marches because it was where my mother had come from. I’ve been as far south as the Korcari Wilds after catching wind of Dalish passing near them. It was not a pleasant experience- there are too many dangers in the thick of those trees, and I found nothing but trouble.”

The man studied her as she spoke. It would be pitiful if she were to give up hope, but how could he possibly chastise her for that? Seven years of absolutely no fortune must be more than discouraging.  
“This is no way to live, Emeline.”

“Do you think this is what I _want_?” Her voice pitched sharply. “I do not see many options before me. I can waste away here, or spend my life running while praying to the Creators that Templars do not drag me away.”

“What is it you do want?” Anders kept his tone even and calm, hoping to draw the answer from her.

“I want to belong… _somewhere._ With the Dalish. I want to be free, and to not be afraid of what is out there.” She jabbed a finger to the mouth of the cave, her eyes fixed on the other mage. “But I do not know _how_ to achieve that.”

Anders clapped his palms onto his thighs. “That settles it, then! First thing tomorrow, you and I are leaving this forsaken hole.”

“W-what?” Emeline raised her chin, her eyes following Anders’ form as he stood.

“You heard me. I am going to help you find where you belong. Don’t argue,“ he raised a hand to her as she opened her mouth to protest. “- just thank me when it’s over. We’ll have to be careful, but staying here is not one of your options, anymore. Consider it erased. Poof. Gone.” His fingers stretched out as though miming his words. Lowering his arm, Anders grinned. “What do you say?”

The weight of such a decision seemed to press heavily on the elven mage. She had lived in solitude for so long that the idea of leaving the cave tied her stomach into knots.  Still, what Anders offered her seemed to be in earnest, and Emeline had always known that one day she would need to step back out into the world beyond the Frostback Mountains. She stood and nodded to him.

“Alright.”

“Alright?” Anders repeated. “Tomorrow?”

Emeline exhaled slowly, feeling the heaviness leave her as she confirmed. “Tomorrow.”


	5. V.

As agreed, the mages had begun preparations for their journey upon waking. A few hours into the morning, with all remaining provisionary necessities securely packed away, the pair set foot outside of the cavern. They had left the stone walls naked, completely eradicating any sign that any person, let alone Emeline, had spent months living within them.

She had taken their last few moments remaining stationary at the entrance of the narrow corridor with her thoughts suddenly conflicted over parting ways with what she’d considered ‘home’ for several months. It was a wonder how withdrawing into such seclusion had altered her. While Emeline never thought twice of wandering the landscapes immediately surrounding the cave she had become far too complacent. Her nerves had tingled with apprehension when she finally had taken the few steps out. The elven mage dared not look back for fear she might rush back into the safety net she had come to know. Rather, she surveyed the gleaming white world that awaited herself, and her company.

Anders flashed a reassuring smile, the corners of his mouth tugging deep furrows into his thin cheeks.  Having assumed the role of ‘leader’ the blond mage trudged forward with Emeline trailing him. As her feet carried her farther from her shelter the elf began to feel as though a heavy stone had burrowed into the pit of her stomach. She did not speak as she followed Anders and tried to revel in their surroundings. The hard-packed snow crunched loudly beneath the mages’ footfalls offering the only sound to fill the air, save for the occasional cry of a wintry sparrow.

Over half the day passed with nary a word uttered between the two mages. Emeline found herself fighting to keep her senses entertained by the world expanding before her. While there were no true fond memories she was leaving behind, and while she realized that so much time had been wasted while she hid, ‘’what ifs’’ began to plague her mind.

What if her months in that cave had caused a missed opportunity?

What if there had been a Dalish clan not far from the mountains?

What if that clan had been the one she sought out?

As the doubts layered one on top of the other the dark-haired elf found her movement hindered. Gradually, her steps slowed and then halted as cold panic webbed beneath her skin. It was several moments before Anders took notice that only one pair of feet plowed through the snowy terrain. He wheeled around to find Emeline with one hand pressed against the broad trunk of a particularly large conifer tree. With her staff fallen she leaned heavily, body bent slightly forward at the waist with her head tilted down as she stood impossibly still.

The blond mage furrowed his brows as he observed the elf, wondering if he ought to intervene with whatever it was she was going through. Was she going to be ill? He did think that their breakfast had tasted a bit dodgy, but his stomach hadn’t complained thus far. When a couple more minutes passed by without any change to Emeline’s position Anders cautiously approached her.

“…are you alright?”

His voice, soft with concern, cut through the other mage’s negative thoughts. She jerked her chin up as though breaking free of an anxiety-induced reverie. Her chest heaved with the short, shallow breaths gulping past her lips as her amber eyes, now wide, stared to him. Dolefully, she whispered her reply.

“What if I never find them?” The words were nearly carried away on a chilled breeze. They had come to the bottom of the mountain path. Beyond it lay all of Ferelden, open to their exploration.

“What good is it to think that way?” Anders laid both hands upon his companion’s slender shoulders while meeting her gaze compassionately. “If we don’t search then you’ll never know the answer to that.”

“It’s been seven years, already.” Emeline choked out. She took some small comfort in Anders’ grip on her, as though he was holding her steady, trying to keep her grounded. “I’ve seen no sign of them. Not a stray belonging, not a trail. All I’ve found were hushed rumors leading me from dead end to dead end. I could have missed the chance while I was hiding in that _stupid_ cave. I’ve gotten _nowhere!”_  Her voice had risen from its alto pitch to a shrill reach.

“You can’t think about that!” Anders countered as he shook his head. “Neither of us knows what lies waiting out there. Maker’s balls, they could _literally_ be around the next bend, or in the first forest we wander into, but you’d miss it if you gave up. We’ve only just left; don’t tell me you want to stop already.”

She stared at her toes, dropping her hand away from the tree. Steadied by the human mage’s hold on her arms Emeline tried to draw strength from him. “…I’m just…afraid.” She murmured uneasily, not wishing to show this weakness but found no other option but to express honesty.

Anders let a short laugh escape him as his hands dropped from the elf’s shoulders. “You’re afraid? I find that hard to believe. You are the same person who threatened to rid me of important appendages the first day I found you, aren’t you?”

Emeline shot him a reproachful look. “I was protecting myself, _shem_. This is not the same situation.”

He crossed his arms as he cast a longing stare to the land stretched out ahead.  Anders was patient, however, and he resolved that he would try to understand from where the elf’s fear stemmed. “Alright, so tell me. There is plenty to fear being who we are, but I suspect this has nothing to do with what you’re afraid of.”

“I worry that …I’ll be caught before finding the Dalish. Or that I’ll spend my entire life wandering half of Thedas, chasing whispers, and it will all have been for nothing.” Emeline’s fingers gripped tightly at the staff she had finally picked up, as though relying on it to keep her standing strong.

The assertion she felt the night before in agreeing to accompany Anders in a hunt for the people of her heritage had all but melted away. She knew she was repeating what they had already gone over, but the notion that another seven years could pass without any fruition to her wishes was almost crippling. The elven woman bowed her head as her jaw tightly clenched against her own roiling emotions. She desperately wanted somewhere to belong, and because Val Royeaux was unlikely to ever become an option the Dalish were her only hope.

“Would wandering be so awful?” Anders asked candidly. “Think of all you’ve seen in your travels.  You know, in a way, I envy you. I haven’t seen nearly as much as you, or so I’d wager.” He watched as Emeline’s lips pressed into a hard line. Andraste’s tits, the woman was hard to please. “Just give it a while longer.  Or at least give it longer than, what has it been? Four hours? Let’s make it the end of today. If you have decided you _really_ are so mired in the despair of never finding your people that you ought to become a hermit forever then so be it. I won’t bother trying to convince you otherwise. But for now- hey- you still never know what is waiting out there for you. You could still be surprised.”

Heaving a sigh Emeline raised her head to search the other mage’s face. Contented that it didn’t seem he was patronizing her feelings on the matter she nodded and tried to let go of her leeriness. “You’re probably still mistaken, but for the sake of argument I’ll agree to continue for now.”

Giving the elf a lighthearted smile Anders gave her a gentle nudge beneath the chin with the knuckle of his forefinger. “There you are, then.  And, barring any incident, if we’ve searched for too long you’re always welcome to stow away on a ship to Minrathous with me.”

This elicited a haughty sound from the elven woman as she rolled her eyes and pushed past him. “Not on your life, _shemlen_.”

Anders’ temperate smile transcended into an impish grin as he followed, his staff striking the ground in time to his footsteps as he walked. “I _do_ have a name, you know. You might want to use it sometime. Though maybe it’s too difficult to pronounce with that terrible Orlesian accent of yours. Here! I’ll help you. Anders. It’s easy, really. An-ders. Now you try!”

“When the mood strikes me, _shemlen_.” Emeline called back to him while keeping the smirk on her lips hidden, though it was prominently in her tone.

“You know, I don’t even know what that means.” Anders admitted, still trying to gain ground. Maker’s mercy the woman had a fast pace. “Maybe it’s a term of endearment. Is it? Does it mean you think I’m pretty?”

“No.” The reply was curt as the elven woman made to quicken her steps, still hiding her expression from him. It had been overly long since she had anyone to converse with in such a way. Though Emeline was not entirely comfortable with Anders it was becoming more clear to her that he was someone she could let her guard down around just a bit more than usual.

“Very well- two can play at this game.” He quipped, now half jogging to catch up to her. “How about Freckles? I think it’s fitting- you’ve got a lot of the blessed things all over that face of yours. Yes, Freckles- it has a nice ring to it. Don’t you think- hey!”

White powder exploded against his shoulder from Emeline’s direction. She stood facing him, staff balanced in the crook of her injured arm with another snowball sitting in the palm of her gloved hand. “I should warn you that I have remarkably good aim.”

He hadn’t noticed when she managed to scoop up and shape the snow for the first snowball, let alone the second.  Anders raised an eyebrow, wondering more about the elf’s speed of crafting the cold projectile with one good hand rather than her aim. Still, he found it encouraging that Emeline had a side to her that was not a jumble of frayed nerves and mistrust.

“I’ll see your ‘remarkably good aim’ and raise you the ability to do this.” Anders moved the fingers of his non-staff hand to form his own ball of snow, perfectly spherical and purely magical. Before he had the chance to throw it, however, the elven mage pelted him square in the forehead causing his beautiful creation to fall harmlessly to the ground.

“Why are you always throwing things at my head?” He asked despairingly while brushing away the bits of frost from the bridge of his long nose. “It isn’t _that_ funny.” It was useless to feign being grumpy as he stalked up to Emeline who had burst into a fit of stifled laughter.

Coming up beside her Anders reached overhead to pull at a branch of another fir tree. How unfortunate for the elf that she had unwittingly decided to start this little war so near a weapon that could be used against her. Giving his traveling companion a smug glance the blond released the branch. It sprung upward, and showered crystalline bits of snow all over the top of Emeline’s head. It clung to her raven hair and eyelashes and she immediately stopped her gleeful laughing to gape in shock at Anders.

“Now, if you’re done, can we continue on our way _Freckles_?” Dusting his hand off against his thigh the blond resumed walking.

“If you insist _shemlen_.” Emeline grumbled, not unkindly, as she, too picked up pace to walk beside him.

 

 

 

 

Nearly through the day’s journey the mages had come across a frozen stream which eventually led them to a road near Lake Calenhad. Anders steered their direction southward. North would bring them close to Gherlen’s Pass, and in turn the Imperial Highway. Emeline, too, realized that path would eventually run directly toward a Circle Tower- nowhere that two mages ought to be found lingering about for long.

Traveling past the village of Redcliffe, however, meant possibly coming across a merchant trader and bartering for food, though the elf mage insisted she could easily catch their supper if they came across any animals. It moved relief through Anders, as he had had his fill of hunting while Emeline had been indisposed.

The pair found themselves immersing in idle conversation between brief discussions of what direction to take. Anders expressed his particular fondness for felines, stating his envy of the creatures’ ability to come and go as they pleased, of never having to answer to anyone. Cats tolerated others, he said, and the blond had always taken it as a compliment whenever one warmed up to him. His eyes lit up in such a manner while reveling in the subject that Emeline could hardly resist her urge to poke fun at him. Taking it all in good measure, Anders eventually trailed off with a final statement of how, one day, he’d like to have a place he might call his own and have as many cats as he’d like.

Emeline spoke a little of her time spent in Orlais; of how she would often reminisce of the Duchess Beauchamp, wondering what had become of her after turning a much younger Emeline out into the world. She speculated with Anders on the probabilities of the Chantry persecuting the noblewoman for knowingly harboring an apostate. Perhaps the duchess had employed the use of her silver tongue to elegantly fib her way out of trouble. It did not seem very like the woman to do so, but in Val Royeaux every person of status must know how to play The Game- an evocative dance of half-truths and political stature which could raise prominence or bring one to utter ruin. In the end, Emeline had decided she much rather believe that her mistress had chosen to protect herself by feigning complete ignorance to her charge’s abilities. If there was any luck on the duchess’ side the First Enchanter at Montsimmard’s Circle, if he knew what was good for him, would not have given away the kept secret of the elf’s private tutelage.

Before dusk settled far in over Ferelden the mages discovered a prime place to settle down for the evening. The edge of the Hinterlands didn’t offer much by way of natural shelter, but they had come to some fortune in finding a sizable knoll displaying a rock formation which created a shelf by resting atop another vertical stone jutting from the ground. They settled quickly, Anders busily working at making a small fire with whatever kindling he could find. Here, the ground was patchy with snow, but not nearly as blanketed as the terrain closer to the mountains.  It made it quite easy to pick up stray twigs to toss into the makeshift pit.

Emeline settled with her back to the hillside, grateful that the wind was blocked by the slope offering them a little reprieve from the cold. As the warmth generated by their walking began to fade from her bones the elven woman pulled her blanket free from her pack and wrapped it around her shoulders after drawing her hood over her head.

“Pity we didn’t find anything to eat.” Anders sighed trying to ignore the complaint of his grumbling stomach. Having successfully ignited the fire using the flint rock taken from the cave the blond sat back next to Emeline. “No chance there’s any of that questionable meat left, is there?”

“I’m afraid not.” She replied groggily, feeling the effects of their long walk overcoming her. It had been some time since the elf had spent an entire day on the move. Her limbs felt weakened by it, and her muscles were rubbery.

“Well, that’s probably for the better. I didn’t want to say so, but I think what we ate this morning was the same as putting our lives in the hands of the Maker. Cured meat only lasts so long. Frankly, we’re lucky we’ve made it this far.” He teased in good humor, earning a halfhearted smile from his companion. “So?”

A fine, dark brow arched over a topaz-colored eye as the freckled elf looked quizzically to Anders’ vague prompt. “So what?”

Anders’ light brown eyes twinkled with some mischief as he watched the reflection of orange and yellow hues flickering over Emeline’s partially hidden face.  It set her medium-toned skin aglow in a pleasing aesthetic.  For a beat, the mage found himself mentally scrounging for the words he had prepared, and it was just before the elven woman spoke that he remembered.

“Did you decide? Here we are,” he gestured to their surroundings. “It’s the end of the day, night is settling in, and you made it this far. So, do you continue…or do you give up?”

Considering her options Emeline stared down at her gloved fingers as though she might find the answer there. While she’d had some time to think since the idea was first suggested the elf had not actually put it to use. She had been too distracted by conversation, too enamored by the world she had locked herself away from for the better part of a year to worry over making a choice. In that revelation Emeline figured that was the answer.

“I’ll keep going until it no longer feels right to do so. I do not know when that will be, but you were right. It would be foolish of me to assume that I may never come across what I seek. I would not be satisfied were I to leave myself wondering.”

“Happy to hear it,” Anders voiced with a tone to match his claim. Weary, he drew up his knees beneath his cloak to conserve the heat the campfire gave off. 

Moments of quiet enveloped them, interrupted only by the crackling of kindling and their increasingly shuddering breaths. It was evident that in order to avoid succumbing to the chill of night they either needed a better shelter, or a bigger fire. Given neither appeared possible, Anders decided to risk life and limb by lifting one side of his cloak like a great bird stretching out a wing.

“Come on, then.” He said with a nod of his head insinuating that Emeline move in closer to him.

She peered at him suspiciously, quietly questioning his motives as a wall of distrust began to erect itself. Sensing the elf’s hesitance Anders snorted quietly.

“We both need to keep warm, and we both need to rest well if we’re going to have a hope of getting any further in the morning- especially with empty bellies.”

Gritting her teeth against her ability to exhibit caginess toward others- humans, in particular- Emeline relented. She shifted until her slender figure was awkwardly against the blonde’s side. Keeping her knees drawn to her chest and cradling her hurt arm, the elven woman silently admitted that the warmth of the cloak draped across them was a vast improvement.

“…not so bad, is it?” Anders murmured quietly as he tentatively placed an arm about the elf’s small shoulders. He felt her begin to relax as her fatigue set in. There was no reply, and after a moment he heard her breath even out to the shallow sounds of one given in to slumber. 

It was not long before Anders found himself too tired to fight a state of waking. His head drooped until his cheek pressed against the top of Emeline’s hair. He was aware enough, though briefly, to be reminded of the first evening he had cared for her after her unfortunate fall. Mindful of the elf’s injuries the blond drew the cloak about them more snugly, pinning it in place before finally drifting off to the dreams offered by the Fade.


	6. VI.

**_Two Months Later, South-Eastern Ferelden_ **

****

“Come on! Again! You can’t be shy about this, Emeline!” Anders motioned with a wave of his dual-dragon headed staff in the elf’s direction. He took a wide stance as he gripped the weapon with both hands, bringing up a veil of shimmering blue whilst waiting for the young woman to make her move.

The other mage shot him an irritated glare as she wiped the back of one hand across her forehead. Strands of black hair clung to the sheen of sweat on her face while her other hand grasped her own staff, something that she would not had been able to do just weeks before.  
  
 A surgeon in Redcliffe village – somewhere she and Anders had been forced by hunger to risk entering- had seen to it that Emeline’s arm was more properly cared for. It had taken enormous amounts of willpower not to jolt the poor man with lightning when he reset the fracture, but over the following weeks it had seemed to serve some good. Within the sixth week she had felt confident enough to replace the sling with a sturdy brace to ensure that she did not reinjure herself.

After some obligatory testing by her companion they had both decided that the elven woman would be able to wield her weapon somewhat comfortably with both hands. Anders had also insisted that it may aid in regaining dexterity in her fingers to begin using her staff, again, as more than just a walking stick.

Over the course of the previous month, as the snows of Drakonis melted into the more temperate weather of Cloudsreach, the mages sojourned across the rolling, rocky expanses of the Hinterlands. Anders had allowed Emeline complete freedom in where they went, only making an input if were they to move too closely to a Templar-populated village.  While the blond mage had grown used to the idea of controlling where he went in his previous travels he hadn’t the heart to discourage his company from searching wherever she saw fit. He understood the yearning to belong _somewhere_ , to have a home, and so felt obliged to let Emeline take them anywhere her heart guided them.

However, as word of the Dalish was already sparse, and there were a scant few elves living outside of the cities and alienages who could offer any information, the dark-haired mage quickly had become discouraged. She had made every attempt not to put on display how lost in her hopelessness she had fallen, but Anders still could see it written across her face. It was there whenever someone gave them a useless lead, and it was there whenever someone could offer nothing at all. It was there when Emeline thought he had fallen asleep before her some nights while she whispered prayers to the Creators.

In an attempt to get Emeline’s mind off of the failure to make headway Anders prompted her, one morning, with a bit of practical magic.

Each day in the last two weeks he insisted that they take an hour out of their travels to fling a few spells at one another. It would keep them sharp, or so he claimed, and would prevent her healing arm from losing range of use. Moreover, and this Anders would never tell her, it would grant Emeline the chance to excise her negativity in a more conducive manner.

During their first practice, however, Anders had discovered just how undereducated by the Orlesian tutor his companion had been. While the elven woman had impeccable aim with basic energy blasts, along with a moderate familiarity in the Primal school of lightning, her control left something to be desired. The magic often ran errant by missing its target, skimming it, or running out of power before it struck.  While Anders had no doubt that, cornered, Emeline could have defended herself when they had first met; he had no misgivings in questioning how _effectively_ she could have done so.

Their daily sparring quickly transgressed into lessons. The blond didn’t really see himself as a proper Enchanter equipped to teach, but as he had the most experience, and there was no better option, he bore the responsibility willingly.  Initially, Emeline had been too steeped in stubbornness to admit she hadn’t quite the skill in magic as she believed. However, after an unfortunate skirmish with a small pack of black wolves just one day after Anders’ offer- which nearly ended up with her throat torn out- the elf swallowed her pride and relented.

There, at the cusp of the Korcari Wilds, Anders issued his challenge once more. Raising one hand from his staff, still holding the protective barrier, he motioned and grinned at his tired companion.

“This is it for today, I swear it. You may even hit me this time, Emeline. Just put a little backbone into it!”

The elf’s ocher eyes narrowed into determined slits as her good hand whirled the staff so that the glowing stone pointed in Anders’ direction. She drew on a wisp of mana from the Fade, putting all of her focus into a violet blast that merely deflected off the barrier. Growling with the drive to prove she could do better Emeline summoned more strength. Electric current simmered through the air as she assaulted the other mage with spell after spell until it burst through the protective wall. The final spell had already been cast, and it crackled loudly while striking her target with enough force to knock him backward.

Stunned, Anders laid flat, arms spread to either side of him. His staff clattered just out of reach having been forced from his hold.

Emeline stared in wide-eyed silence, holding her breath as she waited to see whether or not he had moved. She worried that she might have hurt him too badly, and when the blond didn’t move she crept forward. Bending at the waist, her dark hair falling to frame her face, the elf nudged her toe into his side.

“…are you dead?” She probed. When he didn’t reply the elf grimaced, worry creasing her brow. “Anders?”

Light brown eyes flickered to the freckled face hovering over him. Wheezy laughter escaped his lips, sending remnants of pain spider webbing down his ribcage. “So, that’s what it takes for you to use my name? I have to be dead?”

Sighing, Emeline straightened and turned her back. “Can you stand?”

“I _could_ , but your attack has helped me realize just how cozy the ground is just here. It’s quite springy, and…moist.” He gave her a faint grin while bringing one hand to rub the spot on his chest where he’d been struck. “Five more minutes, mother?”

“No.” The elf kicked the dragon-head staff closer to Anders’ reach before working at securing hers to its shoulder strap.

“Killjoy,” the blond muttered as he eased to his feet with a groan.  “Are you ready, then? Heading into the Wilds, at last?”

Emeline fidgeted as she peered over her companion’s shoulder at the tangled branches marking the edge of the Korcari Wilds just beyond. Here, the trees were not quite so imposing, but her memories had no qualms in reminding of what awaited them. It seemed so unlikely that anyone, let alone the Dalish, might care to settle in such a perilous environment even temporarily. Still, it was one of the areas within Ferelden borders that might make sense for such a secretive people to thrive. Given that the elves were nomadic she thought it no far stretch to believe the elves were more than brushed up on survival in hostile lands.

Anders came to stand beside Emeline as he surveyed the tree line. For her, or so he thought, this could be the last leg of a long and arduous journey. It brought forth a touch of regret that he had not tried to make their time together last just a while more, as he had grown fond of the elf’s company. However, he could not be selfish and wish for more time despite the rarity of finding a proverbial partner in crime. To be fair, he had never been away long enough to be granted such an opportunity to garner any lasting friendships.

There was also _that_ matter to contend with, he reminded himself. The more they traveled together, the more risk he imposed upon her. Anders had yet to decide just when he ought to reveal the danger he placed her in from the day they had met, but he knew it would likely land him in a lot of hot water.  When, though, was a good time to bring it up?

Over their evening meal while feasting on the bone and gristle of an unfortunate beast?

Perhaps during their afternoon lessons when she wielded a weapon. His chest still sore from the recent blast of lightning Anders did not have to try too hard to understand how it might feel if Emeline was truly upset with him.

Or, if any other time did not suffice, he might whisper his secret to her in the dark of night as they huddled together in the warmth he found himself craving before they fell asleep.

Yes, he thought, as much as it pained him to go without the debatable pleasantness of her company, if the Dalish were within the Wilds and would have her, it would be better to see Emeline go in the end.

Anders laid his palm against the elf’s back in gentle encouragement.

“I doubt it will become any less intimidating the longer we stare at it, Emmy. Once we’re in, perhaps it won’t be so bad.”

Emeline snorted softly though began the walk forward. “Creators know that is far from true, but I appreciate the effort.” Her gaze rolled toward him briefly as the mages progressed. “The short time I spent in the thick of these wilds gave me nightmares for months. I am still uncertain how I managed to find the way out. So much looks the same; it can become disorienting.”

“Oh, well that seems…ominous.” Anders muttered as he fell into step beside her. “At least if you get hopelessly lost this time you’ve got me as company.” He jested with an airy chuckle.

“Is that your idea of consoling me, _shemlen_?” The elf smirked up at him.

Raising an eyebrow the blond feigned a hurt expression. “You _wound_ me with those words, lady elf. Here I am spending my valuable time mucking through half of Ferelden with you – out of the goodness of my heart – and _this_ is how I’m thanked? With snark?”

“Yes.” Emeline replied without missing a beat as her amber gaze stared dead ahead. If she looked now it would ruin her fun. “You _are_ welcome to go your own way. I did manage to survive seven years without you, after all.”

Anders grinned as his long fingers scratched at the scruff of his chin. “Barely, if you were using your magic to get by.” He jumped to the side narrowly missing the impact from the swing of her arm. “But I couldn’t just leave. Where would I be without seeing your grumpy face each morning? I’ll stay because I am clearly a glutton for punishment.”

A soft laugh escaped Emeline though she did not continue their bantering. Her attention swept toward their path as it disappeared into the twisting copse of trees and brush immediately before them. Wordlessly, with nothing more than a simple exchange of glances, they ventured through a break in the plant life to be swallowed entirely away from the rest of the world.

 

 

* * *

 

 

The mages managed to spend two complete days wandering the overgrown paths of the Korcari Wilds without much incident. There was only one run in with wolves that had not proven as difficult as their previous encounter in the Hinterlands. The week of practice had been enough for Emeline to hold her own, though her magic still proved mediocre at best and she would need months, if not years, more to finally perfect it.

What had proven most difficult was determining what was edible or safe to touch. Some of the flora sported brilliant patterning, while the rest looked dull or deadened, and Emeline only had a vague recollection of what to avoid. Potentially lethal plants aside; however, there was a rather ethereal beauty to their surroundings. 

True paths did not seem to exist, for any that were found either led to fruitless ruins, or simply vanished before reaching any destination. The terrain was unkind, and uneven, rolling into crooked hills or sinking into boggy marshes. Roots upraised seemingly from nowhere to catch at their feet, causing stumbles and the occasional fall. Overhead, when the trees were dense, the canopy of skeletal branches was impossible to see through, but where it broke it revealed a sky shimmering in a smoky hue of orange, violet, and green. The sun seemed to have no place there, though its light managed to keep things visible beyond the later of grey clouds.

Magic seemed to leach from every nook and cranny, from the dilapidated stone ruins to the crumbling statues built once by the Chasind folk; Anders found it oddly enchanting, though it was clear Emeline felt far too preoccupied to concern herself with appreciating their surroundings. She told him it was a false security that he had been lulled into, and the peace he settled into was a trick of the Wilds. In her first attempt to explore the accursed lands she, too, had experienced what Anders had. Her nerves, however, were far too aware this time to fall prey and she warned him to remain vigilant.

Anders heeded the advice as best as he could, but in all of his own travels the Wilds had never been among them. Best, he supposed, to listen to the one who knew better than he, but he could not help being in awe of the solitude offered by being out of reach of the ‘civilized’ world. Here, he thought, he was likely safer than he ever was wandering in the open.

Upon the third day, having skipped their magical sparring due to hunger pangs, the pair found themselves in the midst of a large clearing. There, the ground turned soft, giving way to thick mud beneath the marsh grass. In the center the terrain turned particularly watery, and a citadel, which had likely once stood tall, and proud, had broken and sunk so that only the domed top was revealed.

Around them, however, there were pieces of crafts that were unlike anything Anders had ever seen. The bodies, wooden from the looks of it, were shaped into hulls that had been cracked and splintered by cattails, spindleweed, and blood lotus. There were at least seven or eight of them, only a few not completely broken apart, and some with fallen masts that had tattered, dulled red sails still clinging to them.

Emeline’s breath hitched as she comprehended the scene before them. It almost didn’t seem real to her. In the humid haze of fog and garish light it looked to be part of a Fade dream. Anders, having no knowledge of their find but understanding that they might have stumbled across something important, struggled to grasp the significance.

“Sort of a strange thing to come across out here, isn’t it? They don’t look Chasind.” Anders mused, walking round to one of the damaged crafts. Bones littered the ground around it, and it took him a short while to realize that the remains belonged to people.  “Whatever happened here doesn’t look like it ended too well. Emmy-“

He looked up to find Emeline standing with one of her hands covering her mouth. Her face was overcome with emotion, eyes brimming with salty liquid. She fixated on the unfortunate display as her mind reeled with the cruel joke she felt had been played upon her. Her palm lowered slowly from her face as Emeline fought to keep composure.

“They are aravels.” She said after a breath. Her legs were leaden as they carried her gingerly through the graveyard of hulls. “My mother used to speak of them when I was a child. They were fantastic landships with great red sails pulled by the halla—white deer raised and tamed by the Dalish. The aravels would carry my people over vast distances with ease. She said that some clans still use them, though hers did not at the time she left them.”

The brevity of their find began to sink in. Anders turned a full circle, viewing what was scattered around them differently than he had at first.

No wonder Emeline had seemed so blown away. He watched the other mage as she continued to move around the marshland to fully absorb the bit of history splayed in front of her. Her figure halted, crouching momentarily, and when she stood again she held a long, twisted horn in her other hand. There were more at her feet, as well as the slender skulls of what were once the graceful halla. From what Emeline had heard, the creatures still roamed with the Dalish, and some ran wild in the Dales of Orlais, but she had yet to see one in person.

“Dread wolf take whoever caused this,” she cursed, a deep sadness reflecting in her tawny eyes. Tucking the horn into a loop of her belt the elf cast a rueful smile towards Anders. “I thought I might find them here. It seems I was not wrong, but this…this is not quite what I had in mind.”

“I’m sorry,” Anders offered, though he could not believe that it was enough to dispel the disappointment Emeline had to be feeling. He approached her, taking care to step over the scattered remains to stand in front of her. “This isn’t all of the Dalish, though, right? You said there is more than one clan out there.”

“Yes.” Emeline whispered. She felt unsteady, as though she might be ill. Grief washed over her. These were people she had never met, but she ached for the loss all the same. What did the Creators mean by this, for her to find such a thing? “This is…” she shook her head, suddenly unable to keep her emotions stifled.

As silent sobs wracked the elf’s form Anders furrowed his brows in sympathy. He did not fully understand her pain, but the blond knew it had to break her heart to have found a mass of unburied bones belonging to the elves Emeline had been seeking for years.  He had come to care for the young woman, and the sorrow she expressed was almost more than he could bear to see.

Quietly, he moved in closely to gather Emeline’s form against his chest.

“…I _am_ sorry, Emmy.” He repeated to her, relieved that she allowed him to try comforting her. He released his staff, letting it fall muffled to the soft ground. His hand moved to cradle the back of her head, fingers stroking soothingly through her raven hair.

Emeline leaned against him with her eyes shut tightly, though it did nothing to stop the tears streaking down her face. She knew that this did not necessarily mean that there was nowhere left to look for the elves, but for how much of her life she had spent surviving, exploring, and investigating just to find them it seemed as though the Creators had spat upon her efforts.

With a shuddering sigh she drew back a little from Anders, though not entirely. He was warm, and the contact between them did well to keep her from losing herself to melancholy.

“I will not give up,” she resolved, attempting a weak smile. Creators be damned- they could spit on her all they wanted, but Emeline refused to lie down and take it. “Even if this is the only sign of the Dalish I have found in seven years, I cannot stop looking for them.”

Anders gave her a tender smile. Cupping the curve of one of her cheeks in his palm he used his thumb to brush away a stray tear clinging to her freckles. “Then I’ll be with you wherever you want to go.”

He held her gaze, his touch lingering overlong. She did not recoil. Instead, Emeline rested her face against his hand, bringing up her fingers to move over the back of it to hold it there.  The blond knew it was a terrible idea, and that it would be shameful to take advantage of her vulnerability, but it seemed the rest of him didn’t seem to care.

As though spurring the need rising within him, Emeline stepped in closer. Her eyes, still glimmering with wet tears, searched his questioningly. She did not know what to do in that quiet moment, either, but she was not afraid to discover what could come of it.

“Anders…” She spoke softly as he leaned toward her, feeling a flutter in her belly. Before he could close the space between them, Emeline placed her other hand against his chest, glancing just over his head. “Anders-“

He smirked, pausing in his advance to speak in a low tone. “I really do like it when you use my name, Emmy. Be careful- I might get used to it.”

“Anders, no-" Emeline’s voice transitioned into something more urgent.  She dropped her hand from his, pushing the one against his chest to stop him from leaning in again. “There’s-“

“- Did I misread you? I really _hate_ when that happens.” Anders frowned, bemused. How in Thedas had he managed to botch that? “The last time it did I wound up roped to a bed in a brothel-“

“No! Anders, _look_.” Emeline hissed, grabbing him by the shoulder and turning him. Her braced arm rose to the treetops, fingers pointing at what had caught her eye.

Above them a massive shape flapped its leathery wings, circling otherwise without a sound. The dragon arched its neck elegantly as it wheeled into the space directly overhead the mages.

“Shit.” Anders stated, completely broken away from the moment they had almost had.

“Mythal protect us,” Emeline breathed, unable to find the will to budge from where they stood.

The beast was impressive, though frightening. It swooped around, dipping low enough for them to see the gleam of red-violet scales in the eerie light emanating from the clouds. The moment of awe, however, was cut short as the creature parted its jaws in a screeching roar. Circling over once more, the dragon came lower still, the wind from its beating wings rushing over the two below it.

“Er, I think this is the part where we run for our lives. Go—Emeline, _go_!” Anders snapped his staff up from the ground before grabbing Emeline’s hand to pull her along with him.

They ran, leaping over bone, wood, and halla horns, zigzagging between the broken aravels in search of cover. As the dragon roared overhead, drawing closer, Anders risked a glance over his shoulder before letting go of the elf’s hand. Facing the large animal he focused his staff with a powerful ice spell and blasted it forth.

“What are you doing?!” Emeline cried, tugging at her companion’s cloak to get him moving, again. “It’ll kill you!”

“Just trying to slow it down!” Anders grunted as he sent yet another icy spell skyward.

The great beast remained unfazed by the attacks, and instead landed heavily. Its feet sank deeply into the boggy ground, though it hardly seemed hindered by the uncooperative terrain. Lowering its head, the dragon bellowed with its horns forward like a bull ready to charge.

“Well, I don’t think it’s working!” The elf shouted, yelping as a flurry of cold grazed by her. “Creators have mercy, it breathes _ice?_ ”

The blond huffed through his nose, nostrils flaring in his annoyance. So that was why his magic wasn’t taking effect.  “Maker’s blood, I’ve got no choice do I?” He cursed under his breath. Flipping the staff to deflect a second attack from the dragon Anders aimed it again as the creature took a lumbering step forward.

A burst of flame spiraled from the double-dragon head staff; heat rose around the mages as the fierce pillar scorched the grass to find its target. The dragon screamed terribly, rearing up as the whine rumbled deep in its throat. It staggered, a clawed foot pawing at its burned nose.

With attention diverted for just that moment Anders turned and pushed a stunned Emeline forward. They hastened through the trees, fighting to keep breathing, to keep running, for what felt like a lifetime. Finally, when it seemed safe enough to assume the dragon would not pursue, they came to a gradual halt.

No part of the Wilds there looked remotely familiar, but it was a small sacrifice to make if it meant escaping becoming dragon-fodder.

When she caught her breath Emeline glared at Anders accusingly. “You can command _fire_ spells?”

The blond raised his brows, hands on his knees, staff once again the ground at his feet.  Incredulously, he laughed. “Really? We get attacked…by a dragon…” He coughed, struggling a moment to breathe normally before standing straight and continuing. “And this is what you take away from that? That I can _do fire_?”

Considering the situation Emeline’s confusion quickly turned to a sort of hysterical amusement.  “How many nights did we spend without it because the kindling was too green, or the flint was too wet from the rain? You could have spared us so much trouble, Anders. _I ate raw fish!”_

“Ah…” Anders smiled sheepishly, raising a hand to try and keep her from continuing, though it didn’t seem he’d get an easy out.

“ _It made me sick for four days!”_ Emeline carried on while pacing in front of him like a mother scolding her child. “It was awful, and now- now I know it could have been avoided? _Fenedhis lasa,_ foolish _shemlen_. What possible reason could you have had to hide that you have this ability?”

Bending to collect his staff Anders stared down at his whitening knuckles as he kept a tight grip on it. “Because I don’t like using it.” He said simply.

“What?” Bewildered by the serious reply the elven woman stopped her pacing to listen to him more intently. “Why not?”

His brown eyes scanned the foliage around them as though looking for eavesdroppers before they settled on Emeline’s face. Such a lovely face, he thought, even when she was clearly upset and perplexed.

“When I was a boy I mistakenly set fire to a barn in my village in the Anderfels.  It was when my magic had revealed itself, and it made my family worried, and afraid. For me, or of me, take your pick.” Anders clenched his jaw, lifting his chin. “My father wanted nothing to do with me. He would have been content to see me gone. My mother feared me, but tried to accept me. She couldn’t, not really, and it hurt her every day that her little boy had become something to fear. Something dangerous. I’ve come to embrace who, and what I am since that time, but forgive me if I choose to avoid using something that caused me pain.”

Emeline lowered her eyes as guilt seeped in from having shouted at him without first understanding his reasons.  “You could have said something. I would have understood.” She looked to him, meeting his gaze. “You don’t need to keep secrets about your magic from me, Anders.” Her figure moved close to him as she smiled reassuringly to him, her heart still racing from their close call- and now, for another reason entirely.

“Everyone has a secret, or two, Emmy.” He chuckled softly, though her comment had brought mild discomfort to him. He tried ignoring it, to push it aside for the moment, but it seemed that the situation had presented to him the opportunity to come clean. “I…there is something else you should know.”

“Oh?” Her small smile turned into a hopeful grin as her hands pressed to his chest. “Is it _very_ important?”

The blond let out a sigh, followed by a short, disbelieving laugh as his eyes rolled skyward. “Andraste’s tits…” he grumbled, feeling quite torn. Bringing his attention back down to the slender elf he nodded. “It’s important enough. I should have brought it up some time ago.” Anders brought his fingers up to brush the black fringe of Emeline’s hair from her forehead. “It’s not easy-“

“-Well, well. Have I come across a lovers’ meeting in my own backyard?” A dry, older voice interrupted the mages from their left side.

“Elgar’nan, now what?” Emeline breathed, irritated that she couldn’t catch a break.

They turned to find themselves being watched by an old woman who had seemingly materialized out of thin air. Likewise, the trees around them appeared to have shifted, looking the same but as though they had been pushed back to make room for the thatch-roofed hut settled just behind the stranger.  Unable to wrap their heads around the sudden change in scenery the mages found they could not even verbally address it.

“Who are you?” The elf inquired suspiciously, though her curiosity brought her a little closer to the old woman.

“More importantly, _where_ did she come from? Was any of this even here before?” Anders inquired, turning his head side to side as he tried to make sense of it.

The woman, sallow-cheeked, white-haired, and dressed in patchwork skirts and a stained apron, chortled loudly. “I have always been here, boy. The question is where did _you_ come from?” her eyes, gleaming bright and yellow, danced with glee as she looked to Emeline. “Who am I, you ask? Straight to the point, I see. It’s a talent that will bring you far, my dear, _hahaha_ , but you lack tact. Fine tune yourself, and you will find many willing to answer whatever you ask of them.”

Anders perked an eyebrow as he leaned in to murmur to Emeline. “What is she blathering on about?”

“I am right here, _boy_. It is rude speak of others as though they are not in front of you. It is rude to speak behind their backs. In fact, you ought not to speak at all of others when you do not possess the knowledge of that which you speak.” The old woman snapped as she crouched beside a large pot simmering something of palatable smells over an open flame.

“I’m...sorry?” The blond narrowed his eyes at her, still completely bewildered by the old bat.

“Is that an apology or a question? One should always be aware of what they are agreeing to, lad, or they might find themselves in a heap of trouble.”

Emeline crossed closer, coming to the opposite side of the strange woman and kept the fire between them. While the entire happenstance was more than disconcerting she could not help but be intrigued. Remembering what her tutor had stressed so long ago of demons and spirits from the Fade being able to manipulate those with magical talent, the elf found herself blurting out her following questions.

“Are you a spirit? Or perhaps a demon seeking to make a deal to fool us?”

“Hahaha, there goes that tactlessness, again!” The old woman cackled as she stirred the pot’s contents. “I am no more a demon than you are, girl, but I have been called much worse over my many, many years.”

The elf glanced to Anders who appeared increasingly uncomfortable with their situation. He moved to stand protectively beside Emeline, reaching for her hand and holding it as though it would keep them both safe from whoever this stranger _really_ was. His eyes busied themselves in memorizing their location: the gutters of the hut were lined with chimes made of wood, bone, and bead, clinking together in spite of there being no wind; chests and crates, some full of furs, trinkets, and food- others broken, or empty, were stacked near the crooked doorway; animals skinned and strung by the feet dangled from hooks around the side of the woman’s home. Somehow, the wilderness had even opened up on one side to reveal more marshland, and a dusty path lit by torches running alongside it.  It was safe to assume, Anders thought, that powerful magic was in play.

“Why don’t we begin again?” He offered as he returned his gaze to the woman.

“Impossible to do, but if you care to rectify your rudeness, boy, you may try.”

“My name is Anders,” he introduced himself, and then gave the elf beside him a light nudge in the side with his elbow.

“I am Emeline,” she began. “You have our apologies for trespassing upon your home, though to be quite honest we hadn’t noticed any of this to begin with.” She slipped her hand away from Anders’ hold to motion to the surrounding area. “Our eyes must be playing tricks on us, so I am afraid you caught us by surprise.”

“The Wilds have been known to pull the wool over one’s eyes from time to time.” The old woman mused, smirking. “As I said before, I have been called many a thing, but I am more commonly known as Flemeth. You may use the name, if it serves you.”

“ _Flemeth_? The fabled witch of the wilds?” Emeline choked out as her dark brows shot up in disbelief. “I thought that was only legend.”

“We were attacked by a dragon, earlier, Emeline. I don’t think finding a witch is that farfetched.” Anders pointed out, though his mouth tugged downward at the corners. He had only heard fleeting murmurs of such a woman- one who lived in the deepest part of the Korcari Wilds, who seduced men, took them as lovers, and then would mercilessly slay them; one who cooked children for her supper, or could fell entire cities with the power she possessed. It would certainly explain how quickly their surroundings had changed, he guessed.

Flemeth hummed in her amusement of the pair in front of her. “Believe whatever you wish. I’m a very old woman with precious little time to waste. I’ve had a few visitors, as of late, and I will have a few more to come. It’s a pity my daughter is not here just now; Morrigan so desperately craves the company of the outside world, these days.”

Emeline laughed weakly. “A shame, yes. We certainly had no intention of wasting your time, Flemeth.”

“Then do tell why you have willingly meandered your way into the heart of my home, _da’len_ , when so many would exercise caution and steer clear at any cost.”

The elven woman hesitated to speak the truth, though the witch’s usage of Elvish and her probable ability to see through a lie caused some reconsideration.

“We came in search of the Dalish.”

Flemeth raised her chin, her interest piqued. “And did you find them?”

“In a manner of speaking,” Anders interjected. “Though I’ve a feeling you already knew that answer.”

“You came across the aravels, did you?” The witch said grimly, her wrinkled mouth tightening as she pressed her lips together. She motioned for them both to sit by the fire before ladling two bowls of the simmering stew to pass to them.

Noting that Flemeth chose not to eat, but not wishing to further aggravate their unexpected hostess, the mages did as they were bid to do and graciously took the proffered food. Anders took a tentative taste, found it delightfully flavorful, and continued to take large mouthfuls at a time as Emeline did the same.  They had not eaten so heartily in three days, and the stew warmed the insides wonderfully.

“We did find the aravels,” Emeline finally replied, slowing the speed at which she ate. “What happened to the elves here? I must admit, I did not know if I’d even find sign of them here, but that was not at all what I expected to find if I did.”

Flemeth tapped her fingers together while staring at the elf as though taking measure of her. After a length the woman spoke. “A tragic loss which occurred many years past. Those bones have lain out exposed to the elements for some time. Those people met an untimely end when they invoked the likes of which should never have been, and they paid dearly for it. So few managed to escape it.

“If you wish to find the Dalish, girl, you are barking up the wrong tree.”

“And do _you_ have any inkling of what tree she ought to bark up?” Anders set his bowl aside, only to have it refilled and returned to him.

“You might say so. I know you have searched long and far, girl.” Flemeth leaned forward so that her stringy white hair was tinged by orange firelight. The effects of settling twilight and the dancing flames created the illusion that the witch’s cheeks were literally sinking into her face. “I cannot give you a precise location, but I can set you off in the proper direction.”

Emeline felt a surge of hope. “Please.”

The woman rattled off where the mages ought to travel, and the continued, seemingly losing her lucidity as she rambled nonsense while filling their bowls with stew until neither could eat another bite. Flemeth, satisfied that the two were too tired to argue with her, then bade that they slumber by the fire before resuming their journey. Though neither felt particularly sleepy, they were almost compelled to do as they were told.  The last thing either could later recall before they fell asleep was that another female voice had grudgingly joined with Flemeth’s in a heated discussion about inviting strange travelers to spend the night.

 

* * *

 

 

When morning came Anders found himself awakening before Emeline. Bleary-eyed the lithe mage sat up from his place beside Emeline, who had just begun to rouse.

The hut, the fire pit, Flemeth, and the Wilds themselves had all inexplicably disappeared. Instead of the intimidating landscape that he remembered being within, Anders was beginning to comprehend that he and Emeline were far removed from it all. His hand did not rest on wet ground, but instead sank into a pillow atop of a soft, lumpy bed.  A window to the right of them peeked out over the familiar rolling green of the southern Hinterlands.

“Emeline, wake up.” He shook the elf’s shoulder lightly before removing himself from the small bed. His feet were bare, and he wore his small clothes.

Even more puzzled, he decided to keep his eyes averted from Emeline as he heard her shifting to sit up on the bed. If she was as equally undressed Anders did not want to risk facing her temper, and he was quite glad to have gotten out of the bed before she noticed they’d lain together so closely in such a state.  Finding his clothes draped over the back of one of two modest wooden chairs the blond quickly began to pull them back on, but then took notice of the washtub behind a half wall.  Crossing to it he found that it was already filled with steaming water.

“What in Andraste’s knickers…” He mumbled then turned about to examine the small hut he and Emeline had been brought to. Part of him suspected that they were within the Fade, but it did not have the same feel as a dream. If it was all real Anders had to wonder just how they had gotten there.

“Where are we?” Emeline finally spoke from the edge of the bed. She cleared her throat in an attempt to clear the grog of sleep from her voice before standing. “Where are my clothes?” The linen shift she wore clung to her slender curves as she crossed her arms around her waist, bemusement lacing her words.

Anders risked facing the young woman, trying to make a point to make eye contact though couldn’t help that his gaze fell one or two times to places lower than her neckline. “Apparently, in the Hinterlands.”

The dark-haired elf eyed her companion, taking in their state of undress though said nothing of it, then crossed to the window. As she placed her hands upon the dusty sill Emeline realized that the ache in her arm had gone, and that the bracer was missing.  Flexing her fingers she noted that her wound had, somehow, been completely healed.  “I don’t understand. We were in the Wilds just last night. We saw the Witch, Flemeth…”

“I know.” Anders shrugged as his brows knitted upward. “Maybe we shouldn’t question it. I don’t know about _you,_ but I wasn’t looking forward trying to find our way out with a dragon on the loose. That old woman...witch…whoever she is, did us a favor. Though I wonder what the cost of it was.”

Emeline shook her head, moving to rummage thought the innards of the cabin. “If there _was_ a cost, you mean. Do you remember anything before falling asleep?”  Her mind tried to work out how they had come to the cabin, but every detail beyond their third helping of Flemeth’s delicious stew went fuzzy in her memory.

“Not really. I remember the Wilds changing around us; I remember being fed; I remember being confused by that woman’s uncanny ability to be cryptic. That’s about it.” Anders followed the elf’s example, turning to sift through a chest lying open at the foot of the bed. Within it were clean clothes, as well as two bigger, sturdier rucksacks.  “Hmm, are these for us?” He mumbled, pulling them out to study them more closely. The clothing looked as though it would fit him and Emeline without any trouble.

“I recall her giving me direction to where we may find a Dalish clan: North of the Waking Sea.” The elf carried over an armful of non-perishable foodstuffs she discovered in a small pantry and dropped the items onto the bed to be packed away. She stared at all of the items strewn out before them, clearly meant for them to take. “If this is her doing…I have to wonder why she is helping us. What benefit does she reap from it? The stories I have heard make it seem so unlikely that the Witch of the Wilds would extend such generosity.”

Anders chuffed, moving a hand through his blond locks as he took notice that the leather thong he generally tied it back with was not there.  “We may find out in time, or…we may not. Who are we to argue the mighty Witch of the Wilds if she wants to give you a hand?”

“I suppose.” Emeline pushed back from the footboard of the bed. It was probably better to let this go for the time being and to focus on a plan to return to the Free Marches. She had not been there since the first year she was forced out of the comfort of Duchess Beauchamp’s chateau- who was to say the Dalish would not be there, now?

The mages took turns cleaning up at the washtub, with Anders allowing the elf to do so before him while taking great pains not to spy on her.  Having filled their bellies with a bit of the bread and cheese left to them they redressed and packed away their provisions.

Standing on the stone foundation of the round cabin the pair devised a plan to make way to Gwaren in the south-east corner of Ferelden. Should all go well, they would gain passage on a ship towards Kirkwall then continue Emeline’s search for her people. Folding up the map, the mages began their journey anew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I realize there may be some slight discrepancies when it comes to Thedosian lore, as well as Dalish lore in general. Admittedly, I took some creative liberties, so please don't flog me for not getting every detail on point. Thank you!


	7. VII

The path toward Gwaren was proving fairly uneventful if only a touch troublesome. As the days grew warmer still the earth softened and muddied making travel irritating as the ground sucked at the feet of the mages. Both Anders and Emeline had filled passing time with speculation of several subjects: how had they left the Wilds, for instance, and why had they been plopped into the center of the Hinterlands? If the witch, Flemeth, had intended on lending assistance then why did she not bring them to Gwaren, herself? Better yet, how come not all the way to the Free Marches, or was this something outside of the old woman’s magical capacity? They wondered at the meanings behind the hedge-witch’s cryptic mutterings, and furthermore on how she could possibly seem to see into what was yet to come without giving any of it clearly away.

When neither mage was discussing Flemeth, they were trudging in silence, or hunting down stray rabbits or nugs happening to cross them. Every now and again they would come across a speck of a village, or an outlying residence where, strangely, folks had been more than willing to accommodate the pair. Either those people had no suspicions of staff wielding strangers, or they truly had found no reason to fear the road-worn mages. 

While a steady supply of soft beds was, sadly, not a luxury within the thatched-roof homes, the pair were offered thick blankets, pillows, and meals to warm the belly. Emeline had expressed that she had never truly come across such kindnesses during the bulk of her years spent trekking across Thedas, while Anders had various experiences to speak of- not all of them so welcoming- and pointed out that sometimes, to be granted hospitality one had to actually _trust_ another person enough to allow for it. It was a notion, the elf understood, directed in reference of her own inability to rely on anyone but herself.

Roughly two and a half weeks spanned the mages’ efforts of passing through the Hinterlands. They were often sidetracked by villagers insisting that they remain for a few extra days, having found Anders’ wit charming, and Emeline’s willingness to assist with chores in gratitude for a place to sleep, refreshing. They never remained for longer than two nights, however, and always upon the blond mage’s urging did the pair depart any given location. While the elven woman was certainly eager to get to Gwaren, she also had an entirely different feeling settling deep in her belly.

Often, her mind would wander to the scant fistful of times either mage had displayed any sort of affection for the other. Of those nights spent leaning against one another for warmth against the dark blue sky, or moments their hands seemed to awkwardly brush by as they walked, only twice had they nearly succumbed to their developing sentiments. Since the clearing in the Korcari Wilds where the aravels had been discovered, and the following instance just before Flemeth had caught them vulnerable after a near miss with an impossibly large dragon, neither had made any attempt to pick up where they’d left off. 

The prospects of actually finding the Dalish had become too real, or so Emeline supposed. For all of the jests Anders would make, alluding to his penchant at being something of a playboy in his travels before finding that cave in the Frostbacks, the elf had thought him rather…tame.  He would occasionally make a flirtatious jab, or a suggestive remark, yet always at the benefit for a joke. Otherwise, as far as she could tell, he had no interest in chasing what almost had happened in the Wilds.  Emeline resolved it was for the better. What would be the point, after all, in starting something that should soon be forced to end?

On this day their feet scuffled through the drying muck of a south road that a sign just a few miles back had indicated would eventually get them to Gwaren. Behind the mages a faint sound of clacking wheels accompanied by soft hooves beating the ground steadily approached.  The provisions they had found at the deserted, yet well-stocked cabin had begun to dwindle; anything gifted by villagers or farmers was very little, and had kept the pair from dipping into their own supplies too often. All the same, both felt a blooming hope that the nearing cart might be a merchant carrying goods.

Emeline dared a look over her shoulder to take stock of the wagon coming past the rise of a small hill. A dwarf held the reins in hand, though he seemed uninterested in the pair before him on the road.

“Think he’ll stop?” Anders wondered aloud, wondering if the Dwarven man had even noticed them to begin with.

The elven woman shrugged dismissively. “Hard to say; he doesn’t appear to be slowing down.”

A gleeful twinkle shone in the blond man’s eyes. “Do you think if I strip to my smallclothes and did a shimmy it’ll catch his attention?”

“Ugh.” Emeline snorted, wrinkling her nose in a way which, unknowingly to her, made Anders’ insides coil tightly. “It might, but I think he’s more liable to run us both over in an effort to escape the crazed naked man than to stop for us.”

“Why must you ruin all my fun?” Anders half pouted, to which his elven counterpart merely shrugged while still eyeballing the cart.

The back of it was covered with canvas, which was not unusual to protect goods from the elements.  Though, the glassy eyed stare of the dwarf, on the other hand, seemed most peculiar; Emeline had a strange feeling that something was awry.

“He hasn’t even looked at us once.” She murmured, moving her staff from her hand to the crook of her arm.  “A pity, I would _really_ like to see if he’s got any boots that might suit me. The mud has half pulled the soles off of mine.”

A brow raised over one toffee-hued eye as the blond mage studied the snowy-headed Dwarven driver.  He was not slowing, and he _definitely_ was not paying any mind to the pedestrians that the cart would soon pass. With a smirk, Anders directed his response to Emeline’s complaint. “That’s because you’ve been wearing the same pair of boots for the last three years, Freckles. Ever think to barter for anything new in your travels?”

Truthfully, he had had no idea how often the elf replaced her gear, but the shoes had most assuredly seen better days.  But why pass up any chance to tease his companion? It was a pastime that Anders had grown fond of entertaining, and often.

“They’re still good enough to go up your skinny derriere, _shemlen_.” Emeline bit back with a wicked grin before relenting. “But that is about all they are good for.”

Anders returned the grin before turning to raise a hand at the dwarf, whose wagon had come into a parallel proximity to the mages.

“Hello there! Sorry to bother, but are you a merchant by any chance?” The human mage started a brisk pace to keep up with the clip of the horse drawn transport. “My friend and I were hoping you might have some items we need. We’ve got coin.”

The dwarf’s dark eyes flickered to the mages struggling to keep up at his side, and after a hefty breath he pulled the reins to halt the animal in front of him.

“What’s that you’re shouting at me?”

Emeline’s devious smile melted into her nervousness. “Good afternoon, ser dwarf.” She’d try her luck, she guessed. “What my companion had asked is if you were a merchant with wares for sale?”

Grunting, the stocky man shifted on the bench seat to get a better look at the two. Offense rang clear in his brusque reply.

“So ye see a _dwarf_ with a wagon, and automatically I’ve gotta be a merchant. Bunch of nug-humpers… We’re not all up here to make a copper by selling what we’ve got, ya know. I’ll have you know some of us make decent livings in other fields!” His gruffness increased with the volume of his voice, sounding akin to gravel being poured into a hollow tin. Red circles appeared on his weathered cheeks, disappearing into the tangles of mustache and braided beard. “Lesson of the day, folks- generalizing makes ya look ignorant.”

Mortified, Emeline stared slack-jawed at the dwarf’s outburst. Anders, too, stared though he became indignant in his retort.

“Who’s generalizing? All you had to say was ‘no’, and go along on your grumpy way. You know, dwarf, that wagon could have been anybody’s.  There’s no need to go shouting at us.”

At this the dwarf fidgeted, growing visibly uncomfortable. His hands wrung at the leather bit of rein between them. “What do you mean could have been anybody’s? What do you know? It’s my cart, mine, my own.”

Confused, the mages swapped similarly expressed glances before looking back up at the dwarf.

“What?” They both asked.

“What?” The dwarf barked, sweating noticeable as he fidgeted again.

“Nobody was insinuating that the cart isn’t _yours_.” Anders clarified. His eyes narrowed as they observed the back of the wagon. Something beneath the canvas tarp tented the material for a moment, though the movement was only just discernible.

Emeline canted her head to one side, curious. “Or is this _not_ your cart?”

When no answer came from the shorter man Anders laughed so abruptly that the chestnut mare pranced a bit, startled by the sound.

The dwarf calmed her before clambering down from the bench seat. “Of course it’s mine! Now I’m a thief?!” His boots landed heavily in the baking mud. “Sodding…rude…” He grumbled at the pair, though his face hand grown redder yet and his body language still screamed ‘dodgy’.

“Well, I think there’s one way we can resolve this.” Anders prompted as a mischievous smile pulled at his thin lips.

“That’s with me leavin’ you ignorant fools in my dust.” The dwarf shot back.

Arching her brows quizzically the elven mage considered the situation now before them.  Clearly, there was something that the dwarf was trying to keep hidden. While she had not taken notice of the slight movement beneath the canvas cover, Emeline could feel it in her gut that this man was likely carrying something he did not wish found.

“No, ser dwarf, I think that you should stay and tell us just what you’ve got back there.”

“Why in the Void would I do that? You’re not royal guardsmen. From the look of it, you’re both apostates. I ought to head straight for the nearest outpost and send a raven to the Templars in Denerim!” He roared. The beet color had spread up to his wrinkled forehead, painting his entire face as flustered as he felt.

Anders shook his head, shrugging as he gestured to his and Emeline’s staves. “These could just be walking sticks. What was that you said about not making assumptions?” Stepping closer to the older man he grinned with a twinkle in his light brown eyes. “Let’s do this simply! You tell the truth and we let you go on your way with our humblest apologies.”

“Lie, and get caught in that lie…well.” Emeline tapped the grip of her staff. “I am not saying that we will _kill_ you for it. That depends entirely on what you’re lying about. However, you just might find out whether or not you’re correct to assume that we are, indeed, apostates.”

“Fine, fine, have it your way.” The dwarf relented, concerned for his life in either regard. He never should have stopped the cart, he thought. His cargo was important, and he had intended on going further yet before stopping.

A deceptively pleasant smile curled Emeline’s mouth. “Let us begin with your name.”

“What’s that got to do with the price of fish lips in Redcliffe?!”  Quickly, the squat driver reconsidered his anger. “If you must know, it’s Dartag. Dartag Durek. A casteless brute that chose the surface over the dustbowl of Orzammar’s slums. Happy?”

“Getting there!” Anders said cheerfully. “We thank you for playing along so well. What’s in the cart, Dartag the casteless brute?” He motioned toward the canvas, almost positive to have heard a muffled sniffle from beneath it. “If you aren’t a merchant then what could you possibly be transporting under there that has you all in a tizzy?”

Dartag grimaced, mentally teetering on what to say before he finally gave in. Stalking to the back of the cart he tore back the tarp to reveal a myriad of knick-knacks, none of which looked particularly out of place. Trunks, sacks, crates, all filled with food, clothing, weaponry, armor, and a variety of trinkets of little value were stacked all against one another. However, as Anders and Emeline came closer to get a better look they saw something shuffling about near the tall board behind the cart’s bench.  Three pairs of wide eyes stared back from behind a particularly large trunk; all held obvious fear in their jewel-colored depths.

“Creators,” Emeline breathed, turning an astonished gaze up to Anders as a hand moved over her chest.

Anders frowned, snapping his attention to Dartag who had, somehow, managed to flush even redder than before. “I don’t want to assume, but is this what I think it is?”

“Go on, show yer faces.” Dartag muttered a weak encouragement to the people hiding within the wagon’s bed. The dwarf waved a snub-fingered hand at them.

Three heads popped up a bit more, all with delicately pointed ears, though two were much younger than the third. An adult female with straw-colored hair tied into a neat braid, and two children roughly similar in ages- a girl with the same light hair, though long and loose, and a boy whose darker locks curled around his earlobes and soft jaw line- all glanced nervously at the mages.

The girl whimpered softly, clinging to, whom Emeline assumed, was her brother. The older female elf kept a protective arm around both children.

“Maker’s hairy balls, please tell me you’re not a slaver.” Anders glowered down at Dartag.

“Language!” Emeline hissed, elbowing the other mage hard in the side in reminder that there were younger minds present. Then her bright, amber eyes turned dark towards the dwarf. “But, yes, please tell us this is not what we’ve just revealed.”

“Slaver? Don’t be absurd!” Dartag sputtered before calming down to pace before the wagon. “They’re my friends. I’m giving them passage to Gwaren. Took ‘em out of a nasty situation in Denerim’s alienage- their father and sister vanished. Kidnapped, apparently, by some noble or another; rumor’s goin’ around that elves are winding up in ‘Vint caravans toward Minrathous.”

The dwarf twisted his silvery, braided beard around two fingers as he continued speaking, his steps stopping near the fore of the wagon. “Guess it don’t really matter who’s doin’ it. The tykes here do errands for me, sometimes. When they told me what happened and asked for my help…ah, I couldn’t turn ‘em down.”

From her place in the wagon the older female elf spoke. “He tells the truth.”  Her pale blue eyes searched for understanding from the mages. “I am likely never to see my husband or my older girl again, but I’ll not let the same fate meet the rest of us.”

Emeline moved closer until she stood toe-to-wheel beside the cart.  Observing what was left of the other woman’s family she gave them a sympathetic expression. “No one can blame you for running, then. It seems that Dartag is a good friend. My name is Emeline, and this is Anders.” She gestured to the other mage before turning to face the dwarf who still looked put off about everything.  “You have our apologies, ser dwarf for the trouble we’ve caused you.”

Anders gave the other group a sheepish smile. “Er, yes, sorry about all that. Headed to Gwaren, you say?” Would it be wise to continue this train of thought, he wondered. Giving Emeline a fast glance the blond mage saw her nod. Apparently, they were both on the same page, though before he could continue the elven mother had quieted her frightened children to speak again.

“I am Nesiri. This is my son, Geven, and my daughter, Briawen.”

“A pleasure,” Emeline brought her gaze to the two children. They couldn’t be more than eleven or twelve, and she assumed that they were either fraternal twins or had been born very close together. “It doesn’t look very comfortable back there. You’re a long way from Denerim, now, is there really a need for the tarp?”

The girl, Briawen, chewed the inside of her cheek as she gazed shyly at the freckle-faced elf. Her brother, however, seemed more confident to reply. “It’s alright, but it gets stuffy under there. Dartag stops every few hours so we can get out and stretch our legs. He says it’s to keep us from getting too stiff.”

“Good for the circulation.” Dartag added with a quick smile to the lad. “I suppose you’re right. Being this far from Denerim I don’t think we’re in any more danger of running into anyone who might catch us.”

Nesiri sighed in her relief, a hand smoothing down the unruly locks of Briawen’s mass of hair. “Thank the Creators for that. It does get rather stifling.”

Anders cleared his throat while making a show of tapping the top of his staff against the wood of the wagon’s side. When the others turned their heads to look he smiled and waved.

“Hello. Remember me? Asked a question? Got ignored. Nice lot, you all.”

Rolling her eyes at him Emeline motioned for him to get on with what he had wanted to ask. “Alright, go on then. You’ve got everyone’s attention.”

“Maybe I’ve changed my mind.” Anders snorted, turning his nose upward in mock stubbornness. It didn’t last long, however, and he grinned. “You said you’re headed for Gwaren, right?”

After Dartag confirmed this the mage went on. “It just so happens that’s where Emmy and I are headed. Perhaps we might all travel on together?”

The dwarf hesitated, his dark eyes glancing down the road from where he had come. “Give me one good reason that I should agree after what you two put me through.”

“Ahh, I’ve got nothing. Emeline will tell you! She’s good at this.” Anders stepped behind the elven mage, putting a hand on her shoulder to give her a light push forward.

She sent daggers his way by means of a dangerous glare whilst hissing at him beneath her breath. “Good at _what_?” Still, she went along with it and scrambled for something to say that might make everything better.

“We thought you had been hiding something. You looked a bit suspicious after you’d stopped, to be honest. Maybe that you had stolen the cart, or were hiding stolen goods, so we were planning on stealing some of it back for ourselves if that was the case.” Emeline pursed her lips.

“But you passed the test!” Anders said, upraising one arm showily. “Ta-da! Turns out you’re a decent fellow! Ow!” His hand flew to the back of his head where the elf mage had just sharply struck him, but the grin never left his face. “I do like it when you get assertive, but really? In front of the children? _Emmy_.”

“Please, ignore him.” Emeline insisted. “Dartag, you have our apologies. You have already correctly guessed at what Anders and I truly are- we could offer you protection the rest of the way to Gwaren. It isn’t much further, perhaps another few days, but there is still a chance of running into trouble.”

“So you are apostates.” The elderly dwarf eyed them wearily though still considered the proffered idea.

“We prefer ‘freedom-seeking mages’, but sure if you’re into titles.” Anders muttered but in good nature.

Dartag raised a bushy white brow in the older elf’s direction. “What do you think, Nesiri?”

The slender woman smiled wanly. “They have had plenty of time to harm us. If that was their true intention it would have already been done. The _shem_ has a mouth on him, but he seems honest, and Emeline has a kindness in her eyes to belie her tough exterior. I do not feel threatened.”

“Kind eyes? _Her?_ ” Anders jerked a thumb at his companion, his grin going lopsided. “If you say so, but you have no idea how many things she’s thrown at me over the last few months.”

As they settled on allowing the mages to accompany the other party for the remainder of the way to Ferelden’s southernmost port town, Nesiri opted to walk for a while with their new companions. The children stretched out some more in the back of the cart given more room to do so, and the trek resumed once Dartag returned to the bench. They moved slowly, giving the mare- which the dwarf affectionately called Lady Whinny, a name Anders had wholeheartedly approved of upon hearing- some relief from moving quickly most of the day.

Emeline tried, and failed, to keep from badgering Nesiri with questions, though they were taken in great stride. The apostate learned the other elven woman had been born to a small Dalish clan called Tamdis.

“A skirmish occurred when I was just a girl.” Nesiri recounted while keeping her voice soft to keep out of range of the children who were occupying themselves with some of the figurines out of Dartag’s crates. “We did not move very often, as we had no aravels and few halla to do so. Instead, our Keeper would find us safety nestled deep within forests. His magic was wonderful- it always seemed that the trees bent at his will to allow the passage of our people, showing us the way to our new sanctuary.”

Fascinated, the younger elven woman pressed the other for more information. She had never come across any other elf that had any inkling what it was to live as a Dalish. Had Flemeth set them upon this path on purpose? Did that batty old witch really see into the future?

“You said there was a skirmish. What happened? Where is your clan, now and why aren’t you with them?”

“Emmy, don’t forget to breathe.” Anders reminded, though the teasing in his words had been turned to a bare minimum. His insides twisted at both joy that his companion had a source of knowledge to pick at, but also with the dread of realizing they were that much closer to separating.

Nesiri laughed softly, though there was a sadness reflected in her light sapphire eyes at the memories she recalled. “In the aftermath of the Orlesian occupation of Ferelden there remained many stragglers who had nowhere to go. Some years after King Maric was crowned, though my clan was oblivious to much of the struggle between the shemlen armies, we had parted from a copse of trees that were becoming overrun by ruffians. They were wearing the tattered colors of the Orlesian armies that the Keeper had once spied marching back across the Frostbacks- it may be that the men were once prisoners of war who had managed to escape. Some in the clan supposed they were deserters, but it was no concern of ours.

“As our people journeyed in search of a new settlement we discovered that we had been pegged by the same men who had run us out of our previous home. We could not outrun them without aravels, and our Keeper was the only one who practiced magic. He defended our people on his own, sacrificing himself so that the rest of us might flee.”

Anders caught the sorrow written across Nesiri’s gently aged features, and in turn found that Emeline gazed upon the other woman with a sympathy so deep that it knit her brows high and tight together.

“I’m sorry that happened.” The blond man offered, though felt it was hardly enough to supplant what the woman must have endured years ago. 

Emeline shook her head, bottom lip trembling and her eyes shining with moisture though she refused to cry. Nesiri had already lived through such a terrible ordeal and the mage did not believe her own sadness would contribute anything but more distress to an event that was long over.

“So where are the rest of them? Couldn’t the clan elect a new Keeper, or did the First not make it?”

Nesiri rested a hand lightly upon the other elf’s shoulder having taken notice of the emotion washed across the younger’s face. “Our clan was so small. Few stayed behind to help the Keeper, and they eventually lost their lives. My parents took me by the hand and we ran for what felt like hours. The halla scattered, and the others…either they fell to the Orlesian vagabonds, or dispersed in other directions. Wherever they had gone we never saw them, again.”

She further explained that after traveling a while, her father earning coin by selling trapped furs to human and dwarf merchants, both her parents swallowed back their pride and chose an alienage to settle into. Initially, they had gone to Highever, but the guard had regretfully turned them away due to an overcrowding issue on the Teyrn’s decree. It was then that they settled in Denerim’s alienage. Her mother made coin with her skill for lute and song whilst selling baked goods, and her father continued to hunt and sell furs. Beyond the Dalish, Nesiri said, their life had to begin again, but they had survived and lived as happily as the alienage allowed for them.

“Your mother could play a lute?” Emeline smiled brightly, glad that this woman had not been entirely traumatized by her somewhat rough youth.

“A talent I am proud to have inherited.” Blue eyes twinkled in Nesiri’s delight. “I managed to keep my mother’s instrument, though I have not played in many years. Not since the children were very young.” A slender hand gestured to the pair who had moved onto a kind of clapping game. Their giggles carried over as Geven made a mistake, causing the children to start from the beginning. “They have kept me on my toes.”

“Are they very rambunctious?” Anders chimed in, chuckling at the sight of the playful pair.

Her smile thinning, Nesiri answered. “No more than most other children from any walk of life. It is rare to see moments such as these, anymore. After Mhyran, their father, disappeared we were all made to walk on eggshells. Alienages are difficult enough without having to worry over who might be the next to vanish. Bad behavior draws attention. We did our best to remain quiet and out of the way.”

Emeline grasped Nesiri’s hand to give it a light squeeze before releasing it. “I cannot imagine how it must have been to lose part of your family for a second time. The guards in the city- they would do nothing about it?”

“What happens to elves seems to be no concern of theirs. Unless there is trouble brewing in front of their faces, the city guard never took our affairs seriously.” Nesiri sighed. “Nobles often would come through to harass us; there was little the guard does about that, either. None wished to stand up to them. I suppose they feared retaliation from a higher station.”

“How shameful,” Anders tightened his fingers around his staff as it struck the ground with a bit more gumption than it had before.  How could there be so much injustice in the world? More often than not he never really concerned himself with anybody else’s problems unless it directly affected him. It was selfish, he knew, but within the Circle he was hardly in any place to meddle in others’ affairs anyhow.

Between mages and elves, though, it seemed that the only ones who held any value were wealthy humans with no connection to either of the aforementioned.

“So, why Gwaren?”

“Got a trade route!” Dartag piped up loudly. He had tried not to eavesdrop on their conversation all the while, but it was difficult not to pick up some of it. Normally, he was content to remain silent, but the dwarf was still self-motivated to prove that he was not up to no good. “Gwaren is home to some other dwarves. Friends of mine. Got one that runs a tavern there and he says he can help Nesiri and the young’uns.”

There was an alienage in Gwaren, as well, and Dartag’s tavern friend had arranged for the elven family to find accommodations there. There was also a job awaiting Nesiri, guaranteed, so that she might be able to support what family she had remaining.

When asked the same question Anders had posed the mages shared a hesitant glance, though the man was certain it was for different reasons.

“Er, new beginnings like you.” The blond stated a bit unconvincingly.

From the wagon, Dartag guffawed loudly and snorted in his laughter. “The only new start mages look for is in hiding from the Templars. Can’t say I envy that.”

Anders noticeably flinched, drawing Emeline’s attention. He was grateful that she hadn’t remarked upon it, though understood that the subject still needed to be addressed.  “Uh…there was a bee.” He said lamely, giving the freckled elf a beaming smile. When she turned away his shoulder sagged. The next moment they had alone, given that it occurred before reaching Gwaren, he had to steel himself and stick to the promise of telling her everything.

“I’m searching for my mother’s former clan.” Emeline clarified further. “A…friend, of sorts, has directed us toward the Free Marches. It is where the clan has last been seen, so I have some reason to hope they wander there still.”

Nesiri’s pale face contorted to a degree of skepticism in hearing the wishful words of the younger woman. “The people can be so elusive, _da’len_ , if they choose to remain hidden it is most difficult to find them. For your sake I pray the Creators are kind enough to allow your reunion with them. Do you know their name? It may help you further.”

The dark haired mage frowned. She was no stranger to just how talented the Dalish were in remaining unseen, and untraceable. “Lavellan, if I’m not mistaken. Anyone I’ve asked has never heard of them.”

“I’m afraid I must tell you the same,” Nesiri replied. “Our kind do not converge often, and sometimes larger clans split apart. There is no telling how many are scattered across Thedas. However, you may be lucky in your search there. For your sake, I hope you get what you are looking for.”

Emeline gave a small smile, but she still had that pesky seed of doubt planted inside of her. This journey to the Marches could amount to more of the same- nothing. As though sensing the small well of sadness niggling at his companion, Anders wrapped an arm tightly about the other mage’s slight shoulders.

“Come on then, don’t make that face. It’s the best lead you’ve had in years, Emmy. Something is bound to turn up, right?” The blond gave her a tug toward him, quickly pressing his lips to her temple before drawing away. “So, uh…don’t worry.” He finished as he let his arm fall away whilst pretending not to nice the sly smirk spreading over Nesiri’s lips as she witnessed the man’s attempt at comfort.

If the elven woman suspected anything between the pair of mages she chose to, much to their relief, say nothing of it. Instead, they all fell silent, content to listen to the clacking of the cart’s wheels behind Lady Whinny’s hoof beats.  While Geven and Briawen kept up their hand-clapping game Emeline watched them with a spring of nostalgia bubbling up inside of her. She sorely missed her childhood, and Val Royeaux. The days she spent racing around the grounds of Chateau de Fleur with the servants’ children replayed so clearly in her memories. Were it not for being ‘gifted’ with magic Emeline hypothesized that she never would have once considered seeking out the Dalish. She would have been content to remain with Duchess Beauchamp’s household for as long as the lady would have her.

Her reminiscing was suddenly interrupted as Lady Whinny veered slightly off the path, stomping and snorting while Dartag fought to get the mare back under control. Jerking at the reins he stopped the cart completely as the horse pranced nervously in place, a soft whickering fluttering past her lips.

“What is it?” Nesiri questioned, coming to the front of the wagon as she peered out over the shadowed rocks and hills stretched ahead. 

As Anders and Emeline approached the other elven woman caught sight of movement from behind twin oak trees that caused her to fling an arm out at them. “Bandits,” she whispered. Raising her voice just a enough, though keeping it even so as not to frighten the children Nesiri hoisted herself over the side of the wagon. “Geven, Briawen, lie down. Flat as you can get, quickly now.”

“What’s going on, mama?” Briawen turned her soft green gaze to her mother as she pressed her belly to the cart’s wooden planks beside her brother. 

Nesiri shushed the girl, pulling the tarp over their heads while instructing the children to remain as quiet as possible. “I shall explain later, but for now I need you both to be still. Can you do that?”

As they gave her worried nods the older elven woman dropped the edge of the tarp before climbing back down to join the other three. 

At the same vantage Nesiri had had, Anders and Emeline found they were faced off with a band of men who hardly seemed amicable. The mages took stock of the numbers they were potentially up against, giving one another an understanding nod. They would defend Dartag and his precious cargo by any means necessary.

“Nesiri, I think you ought to join the children.” Anders spoke quietly, though was still overheard by the group’s man who must have been their designated leader.

He was a surly fellow, with a shaved head of brown stubble, sharp dark eyes, and a malicious sneer marring his blocky head. One gloved hand rested at the pommel of a long sword sheathed in a scuffed scabbard at his hip. Like the others in his crew he wore a motley blend of leathers, cloths, and furs.  Very likely they were group of scavengers who pilfered whatever salvageable items remained from their victims. The armor was ill-fit on all of the men, and undoubtedly their weapons- three swords, one bow, and two pairs of daggers by the mages’ observations- were also second-hand. Hard won, too, from the scars on some of their faces and arms.

“Nah, I ‘fink the elf lady stays right where she is.” The bandit leader spat as he sauntered forward. “In fact, so can the other. Pretty little knifey ears might make for a fun night with me and the boys.”

Anger rushed up inside of Emeline as Nesiri audibly gasped while the man made a grab for her wrist. The elven mage stomped forth nearly ready to charge at the man. “You will release her or you will lose that hand! _Me faut retourner à la pute qui m'a accouchée.”_  

“Ho, wait, wait!” No need for trouble, now!” Dartag jerked his hands up, thankful that Anders had the sense to pull his friend back. All the same, it had been enough to startle the offending man into releasing Nesiri.

As the older elf scurried back up into the wagon she watched as the men bellowed with laughter at the snowy-headed dwarf while their leader moved close enough to poke a finger into Emeline’s chest. “ _Orlesian_ halla-rider, huh? Even better. Got a lotta fight in ya. I think I like it.” His leering face came at her as he inhaled deeply near the dark haired elf’s neck.

“That’s enough!” Anders growled, though before he could do much to push the dirty bandit away Emeline had already begun her retaliation.

Her hand shot up to grasp the beady-eyed man’s finger, twisting it until it snapped. As he howled in pain Emeline spat in his face, the saliva dripping down his sallow cheek. Backing away she turned enough to force her heel onto the thin, leather covered instep of the bandit’s foot, causing him to hop and stagger backward.

“Void take you, _fils de salope.”_ Her freckled, olive-toned face was flushed with anger as she continued to curse at him in an odd mixture of elven and Orlesian insults.

“By the stone…” Dartag groaned, pulling the reins back as Lady Whinny grew uneasy. His deep brown gaze danced over his shoulder to see Nesiri huddled against the backboard of the cart, her hand upon the lumps that were her children beneath the canvas tarp.

Anders readied his staff aware that if there was not to be a confrontation _before_ , there would be _now._

“Stupid knife-ear bitch!” Beady-eyes wailed, drawing his blade with the sound of metal scraping against hard leather.

Taking a fast account of where the other five men had distributed themselves, one dagger-wielding rogue having gone completely missing, the blond took aim for the archer. The lanky man bowman had sprinted to the top of a rocky hill to gain a height advantage, one arrow already knocked at the string.

“Get them to safety, Dartag! Now!” Emeline slapped the rear of the horse to get her moving when the dwarf seemed too stunned to do as he was told. She watched as the dwarf regained control over the mare, urging her off the road and onto a small flat of land some distance away. They would be able to move faster than these bandits, and now the men had more reason to exact revenge upon the elf mage than to chase down the dwarf’s cart.

The archer on the hill drew back his string, and in the split moment it took for him to release the projectile Anders focused a powerful blast of purple magical energy at him. The archer spun, struck in the chest, and spent the next few seconds dazed.

While Anders prepared another spell to fling at the ranged crook, Emeline busied herself by taking on the bandit’s leader head on. Her staff clashed against the flat of the man’s iron sword, and while he outmatched her in strength, he bore no shield to defend himself against any magical attacks. The elf gritted her teeth, groaning as she lost ground, her heels digging into the ground softening beneath them. In the utter realization that Anders was busy firing icy spells at the archer and one of the other two sword wielders she knew she was on her own.

With a grunt, and some maneuvering, Emeline managed to roll away from her opponent and narrowly missed an arrow to her shoulder. Pushing back up to her feet she turned her staff to release a jolt of lightning at the bandit leader.

His eyes rolled upward in the shock coursing through him like fire licking at his nerves, and taking advantage of the opening, the elf jammed the bladed edge of her staff into his chest. A gurgle bubbled forth as pink frothy blood spilled over his lips and crimson spread across the leather and cotton vest covering his chest. As he fell, slowly dying, Emeline continued her assaults directing them to the visible dagger-wielder.

“Maker’s breath, Emeline,” Anders shouted, taking his eyes off of the archer who had crashed in an icy block to the ground below the hill. “Remind me never to piss you off, yes?” He panted, chest heaving with his exertion as he readied another spell for the second foe he’d been staggering attacks between.

If Emeline had heard him she showed no sign of it. Her usually delicate features were scrunched in ferocity as she stunned the rogue with a triple succession of lightning bolts. The young ruffian dropped to the ground, convulsing as the electric heat overwhelmed his body. The elf risked a fast glance to Anders in the meantime to see him shatter the second swordsman into bloodied chunks of ice.

One swordsman remained, and Anders drew another plume of magic from the Fade before turning toward him. He was a bulky man whose girth and height might have rivaled that of a Qunari warrior. He also looked in dire need of drowning in a scalding bath.

“Alright, ugly, let’s dance.” Anders waggled his eyebrows at the burly beast of a man- who surprisingly chose to drop his sword before turning tail. Shocked, the blond man reacted with a burst of mockery. “Was it something I said? I can change! Darling, don’t leave me, think of the children!”

Chuckling at his own humor, though somewhat disappointed that the biggest of them all had given up,  Anders wheeled about to assist Emeline.

The elf stood over the remaining bandit who still lay twitching and whimpering on the ground. The boy stared up at her, terror in his wide eyes.

“P-please! I give up, miss, just let me go!” The rogue all but sobbed his plea, squeezing his eyes shut against the tears pricking at them.

Emeline bent, peering down at the other. He was young, no more than seventeen or so, and she wondered how he managed to get tangled up with such a terrible group. Heaving a sigh, she backed away after nudging him in the side with her toe.

“Then go- run away and reconsider associating with such despicable filth in the future.”

Scrambling to an upright position the boy squeaked out a frightened sound before running, half tripping over his own feet as he literally ran for the hills.

Amused, Anders strode to the dark haired elf looking her over. She didn’t appear any worse for wear. “Think he’ll go crying home to mommy?” Light brown eyes gleamed with the excitement of their recent row. “I thought he was going to brown his trousers. Good on you for letting him—Emmy!”

Dropping his staff, Anders grasped the elf’s shoulders as she suddenly lurched forward, amber eyes flying wide and mouth opened in a pained gasp.

The final bandit, the missing rogue, had burst forth in a tuft of black smoke to strike twin daggers into Emeline’s backside. As the blades tore through fabric and skin, the elven woman tried to free herself. Anders pulled her free, spinning to place himself between her and the rogue in time to catch the deadly side of the dagger across one forearm. Sucking in a breath at the sharp pain that followed he grasped the smaller man’s forehead.

His palm began to heat, and Anders channeled it against the flesh of the rogue’s face until the bandit’s skin began to blister and peel. Letting out a blood-curdling scream, his hands clawed at the mage’s arm in desperation to end the torture. Releasing the man Anders shoved him away, watching as the rogue blindly ran in the opposite direction still shrieking.

“ _Emmy,_ ” he breathed, whirling about to find the elf collapsed onto her hands and knees.

As he knelt beside her Anders heard the wagon approaching from behind. Dartag popped his head over the side of the bench, reaching up to pat his mare on the rump for not wildly running them off to paragons knew where. A sturdy steed, the dwarf thought, and more than reliable. His eyes found the two mages, and he jumped down from the wagon to move nearer to them.

Nesiri uncovered the children before leaning over the edge of the cart’s side to assess the situation now left to them. She watched as Anders ran a font of healing energy over the rips in Emeline’s clothing while the Orlesian elf furled her fingers against her knees to keep from crying out.

“Is she going to be alright? How bad is it? Blighted buggers, don’t know when to give up.” Dartag worried himself around them, his thick boot soles traipsing back and forth in the muddy road.

Emeline gave the dwarf a strained smile and raised a hand to grasp Anders’ own as he wordlessly offered to help her stand.

“I think I’ll live, but by the dread wolf did it sting.” Holding her side, the elf limped to where Nesiri stood within the wagon’s bed.  “I apologize, Nesiri. I reacted poorly, and I put you and the children at risk.” Shame reflected in Emeline’s tawny eyes. Having spent so many years concerned with only herself she had grown too used to having no other responsibilities. Other than Anders, she had never once been given the weight of someone else’s well being.

Shaking her head, Nesiri reached down to give Emeline a maternal stroke over her raven hair. “You protected me, and yourself. Admittedly, the whole situation might have gone less violently, but if we had come by these men without you and Anders along, then Mythal only knows what may have happened.”

Dartag accompanied Anders back to the others, clearing his throat in interjection to the moment passing between the two elven women.

“It’s been a helluva long day, I think.” The dwarf grunted, pulling himself back up onto the cart. “I’m getting to old for this nonsense…”

“I’m casting a vote that we find somewhere to settle for the evening, before it gets darker.” Anders suggested, placing a hand gingerly at the small of Emeline’s back. “I also suggest that you ride until we find a place to make camp, Emmy. I couldn’t do much for you, my magic is weakened right now.”

Agreeing, too exhausted and pained to do any different, Emeline accepted Anders’ assistance in getting into the back of the cart. In exchange, and to give Lady Whinny a lighter load, Nesiri had Geven and Briawen come out of hiding to walk for a while with her and the blond mage.

Within minutes the group had continued onward until finding a suitable clearing some miles further down the road to settle for the night, each one of them wondering at the serendipity of their meeting, and whether the rest of the way to Gwaren would prove as trying as that day had been.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Elven phrases found in this chapter:  
> da'len -- child; little child
> 
> French insults are used here to mimic Orlesian language:  
> fils de salop(e) -- son of a bitch  
> Me faut retourner a la pute qui m'a accouchée -- (roughly) Go back to the whore who gave birth to you
> 
> Emeline has a tendency to rapidly switch between elven and Orlesian languages when she gets very angry. While she has learned some language of the elves from her mother, she was literally born and raised in Orlais and has learned to speak the language there quite fluently.


	8. VIII

****

True to their suggestion of traveling together, Anders and Emeline found themselves still with Dartag, Nesiri, and the children two long days after first meeting. They had gone a fair distance without further trouble from bandits, only having to fend off a pack of hungry black wolves that had stalked the party’s camp on their second morning.  The mages had worked together, slaying four of the seven wolves, and Dartag salvaged the pelts in hopes of being able to later barter them off upon reaching Gwaren.

Nesiri, at her children’s behest, had filled some of the silence by humming or singing songs that she could recall. Both Geven and Briawen, who had initially shown some fear of the mages after the run-in with the bandits, had quickly grown attached to the newcomers.  The juvenile elves had insisted several times during their journey to get out of Dartag’s wagon so they might walk with the two mages.

Briawen had developed a fondness for Anders, and was taken by his quick wit, charm, and ability to make delicate ice-crafted figurines dance in the palm of his hand.  Likewise, Geven had become taken by Emeline, clinging to her side and badgering her with questions about Orlais.  He couldn’t care less about her magic once his mother had explained it had been that same magic to have saved their lives from the bandits. Instead, he and his sister deigned to know everything they possibly could about the world beyond the Frostback Mountains.  The elven mage obligingly had answered everything she possibly could dream of knowing, even going so far as to warn the children that if they ever find themselves at an Orlesian soiree that they _must_ try the ham- it usually tasted of despair, and the cheese was deliriously fantastic.

When given the opportunity to share some information of his own Dartag offered up the story of how he had become a merchant- stopping once to pause for Anders’ laughter that the dwarf _was_ what he and Emeline had suspected to begin with.

“My family used to be honorable. House Durek was part of the Mining Caste down in Orzammar, and had been for several ages. Lyrium, ore, and other shiny bits and baubles: that was our trade. My mother, being part of the Artisan Caste like _her_ mother was would take some of what we found and make brilliant pieces to sell to the Nobles. “

The dwarf took a moment to explain to the others how the Caste system generally worked; any member of a particular caste who married someone from another caste was allowed. However, if they bear any children they would take up the skills of their same gendered parent. His grandmother had married into the Mining Caste, so thenceforth any females born to their family would learn the skills required to be an Artisan. It was an interesting system, if not a little flawed, he admitted.

“Sure made it difficult for my brother, Torthak. Kid didn’t have a lick of sense in his head when it came to mining, but he sure as hell could make what we found look pretty.” Dartag laughed fondly at some secret memory that had come to mind, shaking his snowy head in his fondness for his family.

“What happened, Dartag?” Briawen pressed. The girl had caught the side of the wagon and swung herself up onto the bench beside the dwarf. Her eyes were round as saucers, completely enraptured by the insight given by her friend.

“Yes, do tell.” Anders flashed a grin as he supported the child’s curiosity.

The merry twinkle usually found in the dwarf’s dark eyes seemed to go out. He released a long sigh. “One day out in the mines my father thought he had come across a new variety of lyrium. Never saw anything of its ilk, before, and brought a small chunk of it home. Glowed as red as the depths of Orzammar itself.  When he brought it to the others in our Caste something…happened. I couldn’t tell ya what, exactly, just that everyone had seemed to lose their minds. For months the most prestigious members of our caste would argue, and compete to try and mine more of this stuff.”

“That seems…odd.” Nesiri raised a brow, glancing to the mages. “Have either of you ever seen something like that?”

“No, never,” Emeline shook her head as Anders dismissed the question  more interested in hearing how this had caused House Durek to be expelled from Orzammar.

Dartag grunted. “Shouldn’t ever see it, either. Eventually, it was considered that this new strain of lyrium was dangerous.  Now, discoveries of new material generally raise somebody up to Paragon status. However, because this lyrium seemed to be the cause of so much trouble the caste decided to block off the entire vein where my father had discovered it.

“A vote was taken at the suggestion of someone in a rival family- folk who were _always_ trying to best us- and it was taken to the Assembly. They agreed that we’d uncovered something sinister, and as precaution that none of our family would ever attempt to mine it again—and as punishment for digging it up in the first place…we were kicked right out of Orzammar. By that time I’d been married several years, and we had a couple of little ‘uns, so you can just picture how pleased the wife was when we had to pack up and scoot off to where the sky made us feel like we’d fall right off the ground.”

Beyond this Dartag refused to indulge in the interest of knowing what had happened to his wife and daughters. It was apparent that they had eventually parted ways, though under what particular circumstances nobody would ever learn.  Emeline had wanted to join Geven and Briawen in their petition to hear just a wee bit more, but she refrained not wishing to stoop to the level of forcing someone to reopen old wounds if he had no interest to share.

When questioned on how the mages had come about traveling together both bristled slightly. Each had their own tale, though only Anders had remained marginally secretive.  Emeline, having previously shared her background, glanced over to the blond man. It was already embarrassing to admit to basically being an apostate to have to go over it all, again, though Nesiri and Dartag surprised her in their nonplussed attitude toward it.  They weren’t terribly concerned over Anders, either, though all of them shared a thirst to know _his_ story.

Confronted, Anders waffled. He had mentioned that his father originated from the Anderfels, though Anders, himself, had been born and raised in Ferelden. This gave Dartag a hearty laugh as he inquired whether or not the mage was named for his homeland.

“Anders of the Anderfels! Can’t get much more redundant than that!” The dwarf threw back his head as another guffaw rippled through his stocky form.  Lady Whinny nickered and pranced a bit in protest to her reins being yanked back from her driver’s abrupt movement, resulting in an apology from Dartag.

Lines formed in the blond mage’s forehead as his brows arched, shoulders lifting. He didn’t quite care to fully explain that it was the name he had been given after reaching the Circle as a child because he had refused to speak, even to give his true name when asked. It stuck, and Anders never cared to go by anything else. A new life warranted a new name, he supposed, even if it was a life he never had wanted.

He divulged little more other than what had been shared with Emeline in the Korcari Wilds weeks before. The only additional detail Anders gave was that he had been clapped in irons by Templars, and it brought about a searchingly suspicious gaze from the elf mage. He had laughed, waving it off and said clearly the Circle hadn’t been able to hold him down for long.

Emeline, however, had sealed her lips into a tight line and turned her eyes away from her companion. Her expression bore deep disappointment; it silently suggested that there might very well be a discussion, later. Still, she hadn’t outright slapped him, or screamed, or run off, so Anders held some hope that he might retain an ounce of her respect—if he had any from her to begin with, anyhow.

That evening brought them roughly a day’s journey more from Gwaren. Dartag tried to insist that he might get another few good miles out of his mare, but it was apparent to Nesiri that the horse needed to rest. Lady Whinny’s coat was slick with moisture, and her soft, brown eyes were bloodshot with exhaustion. With some persuasion the older elf convinced her friend to pull off the dirt road at the next viable area so they might all take a note from the horse’s book and rest.

They came upon a hillock backed up to a small copse of trees where running water could be heard just past the broad trunks. The ground at the bottom of the slope proved flat enough, and abundant in tall grass for the horse, thus making it an ideal place to call it a night.

Anders busied himself away from Emeline, assisting Dartag with setting up the rolled tarps from the wagon bed to erect into tents. The freckle-faced elf took Briawen and Geven along into the trees to collect kindling, leaving Nesiri to work on creating a pit ring of stone in preparation for a cooking fire.

The older elven woman worked efficiently, clearly used to the task, though her pale blue eyes would flicker to Anders’ direction intermittently. When he at last felt the eyes upon him the mage gave Nesiri a charming smile.

“Let me guess: you’re completely captured by my stunning beauty. At least, I hope it was my face you were staring at. My arse is hardly worth a glance. I hear it doesn’t have enough padding.”

Nesiri laughed, shaking her head as she worked an iron spit across the stone pit. “Your humor must place you in a great deal of trouble, often.”

Crouching near the woman Anders abandoned Dartag and his effort to raise shelters. “Oh, I don’t know. Sometimes, I think my wit is my only saving grace. I’ve been told it’s a defense mechanism or some bollocks like that. I figure I’m just a sarcastic bastard. Actually, you’re right, it _has_ been the root of the occasional tight spot.”

The elven woman looked over the man’s shoulder to find that Geven had run back to fetch a pail before carting it back off into the trees. They must have had found the source of the water within the miniature forest.

“So, _does_ your jesting ever cover up how you truly feel or think, at times?” Nesiri redirected her focus to the mage as her hands worked through what supplies were left.

“Only if it’s necessary,” Anders replied briskly. “Is there somewhere you’re going with this?”

“You have feelings for Emeline.” Nesiri stated bluntly, almost accusingly, though the kindness in her face did not change. “I’ve heard your concern for her in the manner you speak to her. I have seen how you watch her when she is not aware. Yet, you dance around it like a youth who does not understand what to make of his infatuation. Quips and teasing at every turn.”

Light brown eyes steadied upon the woman; he had been found out. “Yes, well, I doubt the Dalish are readily going to accept _me_ into their nomadic little clique. For all they know I might be out to murder them all while they sleep. I’ve got some sense in remaining realistic, here.”

“They may reject Emeline.” The response was frank. Nesiri quickly worked a plucked chicken picked up from a farmer they’d passed just the previous day onto the spit, jamming it into place.  “That young lady hasn’t likely even considered the possibility. Her idealism of being readily accepted is written all over her face.”

“You can’t know that.” Anders interjected quickly to defend his currently absent companion. “She has spent _years_ walking all over half of Thedas looking for any clan at all. How could they refuse that kind of dedication?”

Nesiri clicked her tongue, wiping her hands on a cloth she had pulled free from a leather pouch. Her intonation grew quiet and solemn. “There is much that _shemlen_ such as you would not understand of my people. You heard her story of how she came to be without a clan.”

“Her mother ran away because she was worried Emmy would be a mage,” Anders recited. “I might not seem like it, but I am an excellent listener.”

“Clans only reserve space for three mages.” Her gaze held his, beckoning him to comprehend what was being said. “If a fourth is born to them, then that child is either passed to another clan or exiled to the wilderness and left for dead.”

Anders nodded in understanding. “Yes, I remember that much, too.”

“This particular clan that Emeline seeks- if they have three mages, already, as was evident before her birth, then it is more than likely they will turn her away.” Nesiri gently reminded the mage across from her, watching as his expression changed in his understanding.

Stunned by the revelation, in the fact that he had been so thoughtless not even to consider this as an option, Anders sat back on his haunches, speechless.  His eyes caught movement to the side and he watched as Emeline returned with the children, kindling and water in tow.  As Nesiri graciously accepted the firewood and went to work building it up before effortlessly sparking a flame, the mage remained motionless.

“Children, why don’t you run along with Emeline back to the stream to wash up before supper? Perhaps check if Dartag needs any help with anything, as well.” Nesiri shooed them off gently, ignoring her son’s mild complaining as the elven mage steered him away from the fire.

Anders lowered his gaze to the spit, absently staring at the chicken now turning over the flames by Nesiri’s hand.  Now he had _two_ concerns, and they both revolved around the young woman he had unintentionally stumbled across three months before.

“What do you suppose might happen should Emeline find rejection instead of acceptance?” Nesiri pressed, keeping her words soft to avoid being overheard.

The mage found he had no reply. It had never occurred to him that there might be any other outcome once they discovered the Lavellan clan. Of course, the plan had been to travel until they succeeded, knowing that they would part ways when that happened.  The situation could easily change, and then where would he be? Emeline had no desire to travel to Minrathous, and Anders could not blame her for all the tales of elven slavery within Tevinter’s borders. For her sake, he had to come up with something.

Any other time he’d made an escape from Kinloch Hold the Templars always discovered him. Sometimes, it was within days. Other times, weeks would pass before he grew careless enough to be caught. The event had become so commonplace that the First Enchanter became accustomed to sending the same female templar after Anders- a woman known as Rylock. She was never a true threat to Anders, but she still boasted an attitude to be reckoned with.  The game of cat and mouse had always given the blond a thrill; however this was the first time that he had ever found himself worried about Rylock’s chase.

It was the longest that he had ever managed to evade the Templars that he knew were out there, searching. Staying away from larger populations had helped, Anders was sure, though for how much longer? Gwaren was so, so close- he and Emeline could be aboard a ship bound for the Free Marches in just two days. If she still wanted Anders along, he would take her as far as she wanted to go.

“If you truly care for her well-being, Anders, you should say so.” Nesiri broke through his pestering mental agony.

Anders shut his eyes against his thoughts for a beat before looking back to the woman with a smirk. “And what good would that do? It seems a touch counter-productive, doesn’t it? Why should I burden her with how I feel?”

The older elf remained implacable. “Because Emeline looks at you in the same regard as you do her.  Most of my kind would never encourage a relationship between an elf and a human as there ethical concerns. However, you both are of a kind that most other elves and humans are not. Two birds of a feather, so to speak. Your bond is special.”

“Ah, and by that you mean we are both potentially dangerous apostates who can shoot death from our fingertips? Yes, you’re right- this makes us perfect for one another, why didn’t I see it before?” Anders groused.

Sighing wearily, Nesiri raised a palm to stop his sarcastic barrage. “That is not what I mean, and you know it. If the Lavellan clan turns Emeline away then she may find solace in a kindred spirit remaining at her side. You may not understand what it is to be an elf, Anders, but you can sympathize in what it is to be a mage.”

The subject was dropped, as Anders had nothing else to say on the matter. He was left with a bitter taste in his mouth; they could only run away for so long. His only true chance at sanctuary was Minrathous, and even that depended on whether or not he had the clout to impress whatever Magisters needed impressing.  There was also that pesky rumor he’d heard whilst in the Circle that in order to become a true citizen of Tevinter one had to indenture oneself to ten years of servitude.

Feeling somewhat trapped a part of him crumbled internally. How could he dream of keeping Emeline in that kind of position? As much as Anders would have liked nothing more than to, _somehow_ , avoid the Circle forever- whether with her or not- it was beginning to seem impossible. Mentally cursing Nesiri for sprinkling seedlings of doubt he tried to resolve that he would at least see Emeline to the Free Marches, even if it meant only going as far as Kirkwall.

When supper had finished roasting over the fire, all gathered around to partake in the long awaited meal.  The motley party consumed mostly in silence, the smacking of lips being the only sound of anyone’s approval. Afterward, though the sky had begun to dim at least a half an hour before, the Orlesian elf decided to prompt Nesiri with a request.

“The children and I were speaking, earlier.” Amber-warm eyes danced to the youngest elves, and both of them grinned enthusiastically in return.

Nesiri canted her head to one side as though suspecting something foolish to come next. “And of what did you speak, _lethallen_?”

Emeline gestured to the cart stowed just to the side of the hill. “We all thought that, as lovely as your singing has been to hear, that it might be better yet to hear it accompanied by your mother’s lute. A bit of music may do us all some good.”

Nesiri dithered at the prospect of picking up the instrument, again.  Briawen, however, pleaded so convincingly that it brought about a round of encouragement from Dartag and Geven as well. They cheered happily when the elven woman caved and went to dig up the lute from her packed belongings.

“I do not promise that it is properly tuned,” Nesiri warned. “It has been several years.” Nevertheless, she gave her children a wink. For them, if it meant creating a moment of peace and happiness in spite of their family’s tragedy, she would do anything.

“We want to hear, anyway!” Geven proclaimed, bouncing on his heels while a smile stretched wide over his youthful face to show off the gap between his two front teeth.

Briawen leapt to her feet alongside her brother. “Play something fast, mama!”

Nesiri absently strummed the strings, which did not sound nearly as bad as she first thought. Her pale pools swept over Dartag, who dragged on a pipe and made smoke rings while he waited, and then over Emeline’s patient expression and Anders’ sullen eyes. Indeed, something fast to lift everyone’s spirits might be in order, she thought.

Settling upon a tune, she started the chords of an upbeat tavern song that she recalled from her childhood while traveling with her parents.

 _“Oh! The best of us ran when the dreadnaught was sighted,_  
_Nuggins! Nuggins! For he heard the call._  
_Tripped nine Qunari, and that’s why he’s knighted!_  
_Nuggins! Nuggins! As brave as he’s small!”_

The boisterous lyrics continued giving flight to the children’s feet while Emeline and Dartag clapped along. Soon, even Anders could not completely resist the allure of the completely silly song of a brave little nug, and he gave in to the merriment.  The dwarf rose to his feet, offered his hand to the freckled elf, and when she accepted they clasped palms with the children to form a circle in which they all danced.

“Come on, Anders! Dance, too!” Briawen giggled, her face lighting up in a way that Nesiri had not seen since before her husband and elder daughter had gone missing.

Unable to deny a little girl a spot of joy Anders complied and shuffled his feet somewhat awkwardly. He winced at his inability to catch the implied beat of the song until Dartag released one of Emeline’s hands and snatched the other mage by the arm.

“No ya don’t, lad- there’ll be no halfhearted merrymaking when Nesiri’s blessin’ us with her fine talents.”

Swept away into the circle the mage listened as Nesiri transitioned from “Nuggins!” to a sea shanty that was, arguably, not really for young ears. He found his heart lightening, though sadness tugged him from the middle.

This was it, Anders thought while his sight drank in gleeful smiles, and his ears soaked in the delighted laughter. He had not felt so particularly alive in so long- not since years before when he had given his heart over to a mage called Karl Theklas, a young man with whom Anders had shared a strong connection.  They used to whisper about all the freedoms others could enjoy, about moments such as the one he was experiencing, that they were missing. To enjoy life with friends, to have a family, to do whatever he pleased without a looming shadow threatening to end it all- that was what Anders hungered for.

Four rousing songs later, the children had decided they had become too tired to go on. As they settled beneath one of the two raised tarps, snuggling with their heads together, Nesiri strummed the lute strings more gently. Her sweet voice, unwavering even after her previous tunes, carried over the camp in the Dalish language. While none of them could thoroughly understand what was being sung the words were indicative of an elven lullaby.  
  
_Elgara vallas, da’len                                       Sun sets, little one_

_Melava somniar                                               time to dream_

_Mala tara aravas                                             Your mind journeys_

_Ara ma’desan melar…                                     But I will hold you here…_

While the camp quieted to only the sound of the wistful music, Anders took note that Emeline had wandered toward Lady Whinny. The horse looked up from her grazing when the elf placed a slender hand upon the animal’s sleek neck. Not minding the contact the mare remained impassive while Emeline lifted her attention to the glittering night sky.

Anders approached slowly, his nerves jumbled and bouncing; his words were trapped in his throat as he observed the elf mage’s solitary reverie. Nesiri’s voice drifted over, hauntingly beautiful, and he suddenly felt as though he was somehow intruding upon a private moment. Anders felt ensnared by the aesthetic of his companion’s figure against the darkness, her raven locks ruffled by a feathery breeze.

 

_Iras ma ghilas, da’len                                     Where will you go, little one_

_Ara ma’nedan ashin                                       lost to me in sleep?_

_Dirthara lothlenan’as                                     Seek truth in a forgotten land_

_Bal emma mala dir…                                       deep within your heart…_

Turning, Emeline caught Anders watching her. Her hand slipped away from Lady Whinny to tuck beneath her arm as she crossed both across her chest.

“Not interrupting anything, am I?” The human mage probed gingerly, swaying between staying and leaving.

The elf shook her head. “I was only thinking. I suppose I became lost in a memory.” She peered back up to the sky as a wispy cloud moved to reveal the bright moon.  “My mother used to sing this song when I was a child.”

“Ah,” Anders stepped up beside her and turned his own face upward to study the stars. “Does it make you miss her?”

“Truthfully? No. What I miss is the childhood I lost; the comfort of a home, of having friends, and of knowing where my next meal was coming from is what I miss.” Emeline smiled thinly. “My magic is not the fault of my mother, or of anyone else, but that I must live this way- without her- I can’t help but to place some blame.”

“So staring at the stars- that isn’t out of nostalgia? You’re not reliving your past and seeing it in the sky?” He whispered, earning a well-deserved eye roll from his companion.

Chuckling, Emeline turned about to face him. “I am looking because it is a nice night to do so. The moon and stars are pretty, right now.”

“Good enough reason as any, I suppose-“

“-and because I’ve been waiting for you.” She went on, cutting him off. Amber depths narrowed in the same disappointed manner Anders had seen earlier when he had mentioned being arrested by Templars as a child.

Caught off guard he stammered. “Er, waiting for what?”

The elf threw her palms up. “Something has been on the verge of saying for weeks, now. It’s been weighing on you, and you’re not coming forward. We said no secrets. Spit it out, already.”

Wary, the blond man rubbed a hand over his narrow face. “So you’ve suspected.”

“For some time, yes, but I need to hear it from you. I need you to tell me the truth.” Emeline urged.

He hesitated, catching the repeated lyrics of Nesiri’s Dalish lullaby, distracted by them for a heartbeat.

 

                                              _Tel'enfenim, da'len                                               Never fear, little one_  
  
_Irassal ma ghilas                                                  Wherever you shall go|_  
  
_Ma garas mir renan                                              Follow my voice---_  
  
_Ara ma'athlan vhenas                                           I will call you home_  
  
_Ara ma'athlan vhenas...                                        I will call you home..._

How could he be bothered to ruin such a moment with bad news?

“More likely than not we are being pursued.”

She nodded, unblinking. “By ‘we’, you mean you.” Emeline started quietly. “Templars.”

“Guilty.” He replied, pressing his hands against his thighs.

“So you did come from a Circle.”

Anders confirmed. “Technically, from a small village here in Ferelden, but if you want to be specific, yes. I was taken to Kinloch Hold when I was twelve. I’ve made five escapes, since-“

“-Five?!” Emeline gasped in surprise, taking a full step backward.

“This would be number six.” He said, unsmiling. For once, he hardly felt proud of the accomplishment. “It’s the longest I’ve avoided recapture, if I may reluctantly boast about it. But it’s also why I’ve tried to keep us moving and away from the cities.”

When the elf said nothing Anders searched for more to fill the silence. “I’m a danger to you, Emmy. If we cross into the Free Marches then there is a chance for us both to start over. You, with the Dalish, and me…well, I don’t really have a plan beyond getting there, but it’s something.”

“You’ve knowingly had me at risk since the day we met,” Emeline nearly laughed. Seeing the bewilderment at her reaction in the man’s eyes she moved closer to him. “I’ve known this for quite some time.”

“What?” Disbelief spread over his features. “How?”

“Mostly because I am not an idiot,” the elf snorted with a toss of her head. “But your stories, in part- all of your fanciful tales always took place in some tavern, or brothel, or…anywhere else that there are a lot of people. You’ve kept us away from places like those unless we were desperate for supplies, and always insisted that we keep moving. We haven’t slept in a real bed save for once this entire time, even when we’ve had the coin for it.”

“Cities and villages mean chantries, and that means Templars.” Anders murmured.  “I only ever had myself to worry over, before. The First Enchanter always has gone easy on me when I’m caught and returned to Kinloch. He’s never viewed me as a threat. I’ve never been caught with another apostate, though. I can predict _my_ consequences, but I cannot say the same for you. I have no idea what might happen.”

Emeline considered this, honey-hued eyes soft and steady upon him. “Does that mean you don’t want to be found this time?”

“I’ve never wanted to be found, but I’ve always rolled over and given up when I was.” Anders replied, closing the gap between them by another step’s distance. “It sort of was like a stupid game between me and the Templars. This time, though, I don’t want to surrender.”

“A _game_? In what way is risking your life so often anything like a game?” She puzzled, skeptical that anyone could be so reckless.

“I did say it was stupid,” Anders defended, but relented. “As strict as life in the Circle can be, the First Enchanter has never given me more than a verbal spanking and a slap on the wrist for my discrepancies.” He shrugged. “Whenever I felt too smothered or upset to remain in that veritable prison I’d devise a plan to escape. It usually involved a sleeping draught… Quite honestly, I’m almost disappointed that they never caught on to the pattern. You’d think men and women who have undergone such extensive training to catch mages would be more attentive to details.

“Six escapes are quite a lot, and it’s a wonder that my phylactery doesn’t sound an alarm the moment I even consider running.”

“Your phylactery?” Emeline asked, feeling lost.

Anders frowned in return as though she had transformed into some bizarre creature.

“You don’t know what that is?”

When the other mage shook her head no Anders groaned. “I hope that Duchess Fluffybottom of yours didn’t pay your tutor too well for you not to know what a phylactery is. Maker’s balls, I bet he never explained the Harrowing, either.” He all but gawped while pushing the heel of his hand into his forehead as though trying to ward off a physical ache.

Bowing her head in some humiliation that she was being poked fun at, Emeline turned her back to him. If he was going to belittle her circumstantial lack of a proper magical education then she had no interest in listening.

“Then perhaps I should have run off to Montsimmard instead of looking for the Dalish for all the good it would have done me.” She sniffed briskly.

Realizing his blunder, Anders touched her shoulder apologetically. “All I meant is that it’s something you should know, Emmy. I’d never wish the Circles on any mage.”

When she relented enough to give him a sidelong glance Anders tugged his cloak away and spread it out over the grass. With some coaxing he persuaded her to sit beside him and began to relay what he could about the Harrowing.

It was a daunting task bestowed upon young apprentices, he explained, and it forced them to enter the Fade in a dreamlike state in order to complete a test just to be considered a full-fledged mage. His own Harrowing had caused him confusion and distress long after he had passed it by denying a demon’s offer, and then avoiding being attacked by it as a result.

“It became a great cat that pounced at me, razor claws out and ready to slash any part of me it could reach. It was hungry, it said, and wanted to devour me. Andraste’s flaming knickers, it was the foremost disturbing thing I’ve ever endured.”

Despite Emeline’s nervousness as she imagined an oversized wild cat within the Fade trying to claim someone’s life, Anders went on to detail how phylacteries worked.

“A sample of every mage’s blood is taken and placed into a vial. Because of the magical link Templars are able to use a phylactery as a beacon to track down any mage who has disappeared. It can be handy in cases of unintentional vanishings, however for those like me it is the source of a constant headache.

“Somehow, through something I’d be pressed to consider a type of blood magic, these vials of blood allow a Templar to find its owner’s location. Dependant on how clever or evasive that mage is it can take varying lengths of time to track him or her.”

“…how worrisome,” Emeline gulped, though she could not look away from Anders.

“I’ve heard stories of mages being made Tranquil, or even outright killed for resisting when they are caught.” He said sadly. “I imagine the poor fools resorted to drastic measures. Many attempt and botch a deal with a demon through blood magic, becoming abominations just because they are cornered. It’s why I’ve always given in. With a bit of charm and sass, of course, but hey I’m still here, aren’t I?”

“That kind of fortune cannot last forever, Anders.” The elf’s brows knitted together in her unease. “Have they ever guessed where you’d be before you got there?”

Faltering in his reply the mage was taken for a breath by the way the stars reflected in the depths of her disquieted gaze. She showed such sincerity for his well-being when, in truth, she ought to care more for her own.

“Did you know that intimate relationships are forbidden within the Circle?” Anders said it distantly, as though half lost in the idea. “We are denied our families, denied a normal life, and people fear something that all mages can’t even help. We’re locked away for crimes we haven’t willingly committed until someone requires us for entertainment, or war. And for all of that we aren’t even given the chance to make personal connections beyond platonic friendships. Most mages don’t even dare to risk their hearts, because it is the one thing we might have some control over _not_ losing. Instead, most just resort to quick trysts in dark corners to sate what almost every hot blooded creature craves.”

Emeline remained silent in her wonderment at this ideal and Anders shifted his position to face her, knees drawn and elbows resting upon them.

“Those who are brave enough carry on relationships in secret. If they are discovered then the Templars and the First Enchanter put an end to it however they see fit.” His eyes closed tightly for a few seconds before looking upon Emeline, again.

“Did that happen to you?” She inquired, reaching her fingers to grasp one of Anders’ hands.

He bent his head to watch the tips of her lithe digits moving gently over the center of his palm. “Unfortunately. His name is Karl. They told me he was moved to the Gallows of Kirkwall because he was more magically skilled, and they required mages of that rank, but I’m not entirely sure that I believe it. For a time we kept contact, but then the letters became fewer and far between... and then they stopped. I ran after that happened, too. You know, just because that's what a person does when they're upset. Run away from problems. From _feelings_.”

“I’m sorry,” Emeline retracted her hands from Anders. Suddenly she was filled with the idea that she might have misunderstood his flirtations; possibly, she had also imagined that there was an attraction between them both. It occurred to her that maybe Anders had no real preference in either regard, but she was so uncertain that she didn't want to make assumptions. It was evident that whatever feelings he'd harbored for this Karl might still linger.

Perhaps it was why the other mage had not advanced during opportune moments. Even after the Korcari Wilds, they had spent so much time alone, and she never once would have minded it if Anders had earnestly tried to further the sentiments Emeline thought they were both feeling. His mind was still on this ‘he’, and the elf was very much a ‘she’.  Had she completely misread everything, then?

Anders raised his brows high when he read the elf’s conflicted visage. Shaking his head he quickly reached for the hands she had withdrawn from him. “No. Oh, no, Emmy. What I’m trying to tell you is that, this time, there is a reason for me to test just how far my luck will run.”

He curled his fingers over hers. “I want us to reach Kirkwall. I want to help you find your mother’s clan, wherever in the Free Marches they might be. I’m invested, Emeline, in whatever way you need me, because I care about you.”

She met his eyes, finding them openly searching and waiting for a response.  It was strange to hear him be so straightforward without a shred of his usual sardonic nature.

“If we make it, if I find clan Lavellan, and if I stay with them…what will you do?” Emeline beseeched him.

He smiled crookedly. “You know, I’m not entirely sure of that, either. Maybe I’ll turn myself over to the Gallows and look for Karl. Maybe I’ll make a run for Minrathous. Does it matter? My life has been one unknown adventure after another ever since I set my family’s barn on fire.”

Holding his eyes with her own, feeling drawn in by their dark golden color, she tightened her hold on his hands. “And if I don’t stay with them?”

Gently taking one of his hands away from hers Anders lifted it to cup the back of the elf’s slender neck. He brought their foreheads to press together lightly.

“Then we stay together and go wherever we want to. We play keep away from the Templars; we explore the whole of Thedas for as long as we want. Well, until you get sick of my company and lob something else at my head to finally rid yourself of me.” His grin widened, and he was pleased to find a smile growing over her face as well.

Emeline squeezed the hand she still held, brushing the backs of her fingers over his stubbly cheek. He felt a bit rough, but softer than she had expected.  “That sounds like a good plan.” She whispered, tilting her chin upward just enough for the tips of their noses to brush against one another.

Heart pounding, Anders grew more somber. Her amber eyes seemed fathomless, and the feel of her breath warming upon his face had rendered him all but completely speechless.

“Emeline…” Her name came almost inaudibly before he closed the space between them.

Anders’ lips touched hers, molding to their full shape as he kissed her fervently. She moved in kind, leaning into the way their mouths melded, coming to kneel between his thighs as Anders embraced Emeline’s slender frame against his chest. She could feel his fingers threading through her dark hair and she locked her own behind his head.

When a breath was finally needed they barely were able to break apart, and still held onto one another as though they might otherwise drift apart.

“Well.” Anders said breathlessly, trying to gauge how the other felt.

Emeline peeked at him almost shyly, her cheeks pinkening. “Well…”

“Good idea or bad idea?” The blond asked, bringing a thumb to trace along the elf’s slightly swollen bottom lip.

“Creators only know,” she sighed, still keeping her eyes on him. His cheeks had gone ruddy, as well, and Emeline found it comforting that she had not been the only one flustered.

A light chuckle left Anders before he gently moved his lips to hers once more. It was not a question that needed immediate answering, he thought. Slowly, this time, they shared a deeper kiss, and another, followed by yet another in succession until the mages had fallen back onto the cloak covering the ground beneath them. Clinging to one another more closely than any previous night, they found sleep came more peacefully, and their dreams were all the more hopeful.

 

* * *

 

 

Daylight was still a few hours away when Dartag’s gruff voice roused the camp. The dwarf had been keeping watch for the past three, and had been preparing to wake the Anders and Emeline for their turn when a light in the distance had caught his attention.  Coming to realize that the gleam was torchlight reflecting off of armored figures- three that his aging sight could count- Dartag flew into a near panic. They were approaching the camp from the south at an alarming rate.

Nesiri had already awakened Geven and Briawen, and had ushered them into the safety of the wagon. Anders jolted awake at the dwarf’s hushed urgency, initially disoriented by snapping out of sleep so quickly. His blurry vision soon cleared as he blinked away fatigue and his mind was made more aware that something was wrong. Emeline sat up only moments later, and leapt to her feet in a way that made the blond mage jealous that she could do so without once wavering.

The dusky haze of predawn made it difficult to see clearly, but when Emeline heard a woman’s voice barking out instructions several hundred paces away the elf felt her heart drop.

“Templars. Anders, it’s the Templars.” She whirled about to face the others.

As it registered on Nesiri’s and Dartag’s faces what it meant for the two mages, they both exchanged a sullen look.

Nesiri moved hastily, catching both Emeline and Anders by their arms and pulled them along with her as she walked as though herding her own children.  They stopped at the cart and the older elf handed their respective staves over.

“You must run,” she insisted as the mages worked at securing their belongings onto themselves.

“They already know I’m here-“Anders began to protest, unable to look either elven woman in the eye. If anything happened he only had himself to blame for it.

“-but they have not seen you, not yet.” The matronly woman encouraged. She turned both of them to the Northwest. “Double back, Head north until you reach Highever. There is a dock in West Hill where ships sail for Kirkwall. Dartag and I will try to buy you enough time to get a decent head start, but you must keep moving.”

Emeline glanced back at the dwarf who was busy stamping out the low flames of the campfire, smothering the smoke with his vest to try and throw off the Templars’ sense of direction.

“We can’t just leave you, Nesiri.”

Nesiri drew Emeline into a tight embrace, stroking a hand over the younger elf’s hair. “You can,” she said softly. “And you will _da’len_. Both of you have saved our lives, let us return the favor.”

Sighing heavily, the elven mage nodded and stepped back. “ _Ma serannas_ , Nesiri.”

The other smiled fondly, moving away from the pair to rejoin Dartag. “ _Da’reth shiral, lethallan._ Take care of her, Anders.”

Anders clenched his jaw against a swell of emotion before he grabbed Emeline’s hand. “Be safe- and good luck.”

He tugged his companion into a run, both struggling to shake off the remnants of slumber in order to pick up speed and put more distance behind them. Anders could hear the familiar sharpness of the female Templar, knowing it to belong to Rylock, as she demanded his whereabouts from those the mages were leaving behind.

There were heated words exchanged, the volume of the voices heightening, but the wind dispersed away the intelligibility of what was being said. It was when the mages were about a forty yards from the camp that they heard the bone-chilling, pained scream slicing through the night.

Dartag’s voice followed with such heart-aching clarity that it caused both mages to stop short. “ _Nesiri! No! Why, why would you…”_

The rest was cursing as Geven and Briawen began wailing desperately for their mother who could no longer answer them.

“No.” Anders spun, tears pricking at the corners of his eyes. “ _No, no, no.”_ A lump was rising in his throat, his voice thick with grief as he released Emeline and started advancing for the camp.

For what seemed like an eternity, Emeline felt transfixed to the ground under her. The world seemed to spin too fast and she thought she might fall into the sky. When Anders had gotten several steps away she broke free, running to him and grabbed his shoulder. Her chin trembled in threat of spilling tears over what had just transpired, but she fought to keep her tone from belying her heartbreak.

“You _can’t!_ Anders, don’t, or it’ll have been for nothing!”

He cursed, stomping the ground in a circle as his hands clenched at the top of his head. “They’re not supposed to hurt anyone else, that isn’t how this goes! Why? Why did they…why?” His voice broke as he slid a palm over his mouth, eyes shining.

It was then that Anders knew his luck, as Emeline had distressed over, was running out. Guilt weighed on his heart and he stood his ground in spite of the elf’s pleas for him to keep moving. 

One of the Templars had broken away from the other two. He was a young recruit with the face of someone eager to make his mark upon the Order. Crimson dripped from the man’s silverite blade and he wore a grin as malicious as the sin he had just committed.

“There you are at last, mage.” He spat.

Anders had no room for sarcasm or pleasantries. Anger bubbled and burned in his chest equal to the heat of the fire he was summoning to his palm.

“You great flaming pile of Chantry dung-“

“-I think not.” The pock-faced templar countered, easily stripping Anders of his magic with a well-practiced negation ring placed around the blond mage.  “First Enchanter Irving wants you alive, but given how long we’ve been on your trail, and all the trouble of the last three months who is to say there won’t be an ‘accident’?”

Powerless, Anders relented, dropping to his knees as the young man rushed him- only to find the templar being flung away by a burst of icy magic.

Emeline ran up beside Anders, panting. Having been just out of reach of the effects of the magical cancellation she was able to fend off the blade strike that was most certainly coming.

“ _I_ say so!” The elf snarled, stamping the bladed end of her staff into the ground as she summoned the mightiest strike of lightning she could muster.

It connected to the templar’s frosty forehead, sending crackling sparks down his face and around his armor. Burns welted up wherever there was exposed flesh, and his body jerked and twitched for some time before going deathly still. 

“Anders, please.” She begged, pulling him up from the ground with some effort. “You’ve given me a reason to keep going on with my life. Please do not make me do it without you.”

Meeting her emotional gaze, Anders relented. He would have to lament his grievances later. For now, he owed Emeline everything she had been promised. They ran north for West Hill, the Templars’ threats echoing far behind across the Hinterlands.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The song of Nuggins! and the Dalish Lullaby can be found both on Dragon Age Wikipedia, and in The World of Thedas, Volume 2


	9. IX

** Day One **

****

They had run from the small hours of the morning nearly until the late, though by the end of an hour it was more belabored sprinting and stumbling. Neither Anders, nor Emeline could put out of their minds how close they were to reaching Gwaren before the Templars had, at last, caught up to their quarry.  The sound of Nesiri’s scream as the young recruit had cut her down and the cries of her children burdened the mages. Their legs were leaden in their despair and fatigue, but the only thing they clung to was the shred of hope the older elf had given them.

Finding an opportune moment to check the map for the accuracy of their direction hardly seemed possible. While it was likely that Rylock had ceased the chase in order to properly deal with her fallen man, Anders could not shake the notion that the woman was always just two steps behind them.  For the remainder of the day the blond mage wordlessly led Emeline onward. The silence worried the elf, but she had no words for their situation.  Instead, she quietly encouraged her body not to give out at such a quickened pace over rough terrain.

When the sun had reached just beyond the very peak of the sky the mages realized the heavy call of exhaustion and hunger.  Finding solitude within a field of tall grasses they halted their flight from  Kinloch’s guards to break into their remaining rations.  Sharing a reluctant, meager meal, as neither wished to properly address how their stomachs grumbled, the pair rested only for as long as they dared before moving on.

If anything had been spoken between them it was not recalled.  Each mage’s mind seemed to whisper loudly in place of actual conversation. What was there yet to speak of, anyhow? Anders had scarcely been able to look at Emeline the entire way; only the feel of her hand secured within his own reassured him that she had not yet abandoned him. 

That evening, having come across a shallow den fit enough for a shelter, they came to a reluctant halt. Unfortunately, as much as either wished to flee straight through to West Hill, it would be a feat fit only for those with wings.  It could easily take weeks to reach their new destination, Emeline had thought, at last taking the time to study their lone, tattered map. Unless they could come up with a better means of travel chances of outrunning the Templars seemed slim.

No fire was lit that night by wordless decree, as it might draw unwanted attention from any on the road- including their pursuers.  It was only when the two had settled down did either spare a moment to truly look to one another in almost twenty hours.  When the weight of what had come to pass became too crushing to carry alone Anders took solace in Emeline’s arms. He sobbed apologies for Nesiri’s lost life, and for the loss her children had experienced against her shoulder, pressing his face to the softness of her cloak as the elven woman held him tightly and let her own tears fall freely. 

* * *

 

** Day Two **

Jumbling nerves had interrupted any chance at decent sleep for the mages; Emeline had awoken, jarred from rest by a nightmare, which brought Anders out of what hardly passed for slumber. They had forced down a bit of bread and jam from the supplies that Dartag had shared with them, found a precariously placed and suspicious body of water to fill their skeins, and began their day before the sun rose.

Sore from the previous day the pair of apostates found it more of a struggle to entertain the idea of moving quickly. Their muscles screamed, tight and burning with each step, but they persevered. Around midday a vaguely familiar landmark came into view- the farm where Nesiri had bartered for a chicken was just around the bend. 

As the mages neared and found the middle-aged farmer tilling a field in the company of a large mutt they wondered if they might try their luck in bartering for supplies, again. However, the farmer gave the pair a mistrustful glare, mentioning that a troupe of Templars had been by three evenings previous in search of an apostate who seemed to match Anders’ description.  Emeline laughed uneasily and concocted an excuse for her and her companion to hurry on their way, forgoing their first opportunity at replenishing their stock.

Truly, it seemed they were going to need to survive on the barest of the bare.

 

* * *

 

 

** Day Four **

Rylock, or any other Templars, had yet to remain sighted by either of the mages.  Neither Emeline nor Anders had the gall to even think of breathing easy, however. They were not quite out of the woods, and West Hill remained at least two weeks away by foot.  Whenever one of them wished to slow their pace, the other would give quiet encouragement of why it was so important that their feet continue to move with haste.

On this day in particular the pair had grown entirely too fatigued and could not be bothered with motivating one another. Their limbs ached dreadfully, and their stomachs felt shriveled by lack of sustenance.

Having come across a solitary homestead, however, had given the mages a small light at the end of their very long tunnel. From a moderately sized plume of foliage just some distance from the thatched roofed hut they sat hidden and watchful. A woman, presumably recently wed given her youthful appearance and slightly rounded belly, had set to work hanging laundry out on a line to dry in the sun. 

The mages could smell something baking, the scent of bread or some type of pastry rode a fair breeze in their direction from the home.  Emeline moaned quietly in anxiousness as she clapped both palms over her belly while it growled and gurgled, stimulated by what her nose had just smelled.

“ _Quiet it down_ ,” Anders whispered quickly, though a faint smile played over his near-gaunt features.

“ _I can’t control it_.” Emeline muttered just as quietly, and her dark brows scrunched together over her eyes as she bent further forward to muffle the sounds coming from her midsection.  “Creators, I could swallow an entire ram, I’m so hungry.”

The blond mage nodded his agreement. Still eyeing the woman in the distance he realized that what was being slung over the laundry line was clothing. He shifted his weight, remaining crouched, and gave his companion a small nudge in the side.

“ _You know, we are still on the conspicuous side, Emmy_.”

The elf squinted at him, trying to make sense of Anders’ line of thought.

He continued when his companion did not reply. “ _I am only saying that we look like apostates. We’ve got staves, and I’m still in robes- however tattered they may be. We’re ridiculously easy to spot.”_

Emeline raised her chin, turning her tawny eyes back toward the young wife. Watching the human female move about the garden once the wicker basket had been emptied the elven mage hatched a plan. She was undoubtedly sprier than Anders was, and while nowhere near as skilled as a rogue or an assassin Emeline knew she could potentially make a move without being seen. Elves were the masters of being considered invisible regardless of skill or origin, it seemed.

At last, the woman disappeared into the small house. Seizing the chance Emeline darted forward from the brush. Using what little strength she had left the elven mage made fast work of yanking damp clothing from the line before scampering around the side of the building to snap up branches of berries that she’d seen the human woman worrying over moments earlier.  It was unlike anything the mage had ever done before. Stealing from others for her own gain had never once crossed Emeline’s mind in the time she spent roaming Thedas, and while she held some remorse in thieving from a budding family she and Anders had just as much need.

The blond stared slack-jawed as the elven mage rushed back to their hiding spot with her arms full with her plundering. Emeline waved a hand as she moved beyond the foliage where Anders hid, and he took the hint quickly to follow closely behind. They moved over a small hill some yards away continuing on for several minutes more until finding a more secluded area behind a short, grassy cliff face.

“I can’t believe you actually did that! Look at you, little sticky-fingers!” Anders panted, bracing his hands on his knees as he made to steady his breathing.

Emeline’s chest heaved a bit as she managed a quick grin and shrug. “Isn’t it what you were alluding to? _One_ of us had to do it, and it certainly could not have been you.” She began to lay out what she had taken, craning her neck to look over the clothing in hopes it would actually fit them both. 

With a snort Anders shook his head and straightened his posture. “I was going to suggest that we offer her coin for food and possibly a spare pair of trousers, but your way was far more entertaining. You know, your hips move _just so_ when you run- it’s nice.”

Ignoring the lewd grin she knew to be plastered to her companion’s scruffy face the elven woman rolled her eyes and demanded he do something useful, such as attempt to dry the clothing so they wouldn’t be quite so uncomfortable to wear. Anders pressed his mouth into a hard line wondering if he had enough control over his magical skill to produce a high heat rather than flame, but when one of the socks Emeline had swiped began to singe at the seam he quickly retracted his hands.

Reluctantly, each mage moved with their backs turned to one another to change out their clothing. Trading his Circle robes for a pair of brown and tan striped trousers, a beige linen tunic, and a fur lined vest, Anders mumbled his malcontent in how he was certain there would be some chafing. Turning, he saw that Emeline had shimmied into a pair of black cotton leggings and was just dropping the hem of a light violet frock over her figure. His gaze drifted over her figure for a moment before it was hidden from him by the dress- which appeared half a size too large for the elf. She quickly remedied it by bunching the hem at one side, tugging it around her hips to tie off in a knot as a sort of makeshift blouse.

“It’ll have to do.” Emeline sighed, pushing their discarded clothing into a pile.

They kept their cloaks, as there was nothing discerning about them, and dropped their staves on top of the heap on the ground.  It did not take very long for Anders to set their former belongings ablaze, and the pair only remained long enough for their newly procured gear to lose dampness with the help of the fire’s heat. They quickly plucked off what berries could be salvaged from the crops that Emeline had yanked from the garden, stuffing them into their mouths with embarrassing fervor.

Bellies hardly sated, but quieted down for the time being, the pair left behind part of their identities. Now, they appeared as what they hoped looked like an odd couple down on their luck rather than apostates. Hand in hand the mages continued on toward West Hill.


	10. X.

** Day Six **

In the middle of the afternoon the skies decided to break apart and spill its contents into a heavy rain. Anders and Emeline reveled at the touch of cool, fat drops splashing from above as they washed away the grime of the previous days’ travels. They had not much time to stop for a proper bath anywhere, though water had presented itself on more than one occasion. 

Growing closer to the road that would split off between Highever and West Hill the pair still chose to stick with the rolling fields, only straying from it to reference their own location against the map they carried. Only twice had the mages found themselves slightly turned around, and currently their course was as true as it could be without directly following a main road. As the rain continued to bullet down, cleansing their faces, Anders quipped that it was quite a shame they could not stop because he’d truly like to seize the opportunity for a shave. Emeline, however, kept it secret that she did not really mind the bit of extra scruff on his face. It made him appear a bit more rugged, and honestly made for a decent disguise along with the other mage’s plain clothes.

As the shower soon became more torrential, the skies alighting with flashes of lightning and the ground shuddering at claps of thunder, the mages resigned that perhaps seeking shelter was in their best interest.  It took nearly another hour of traveling beneath the grey gloom of the sky’s dismal cover before they found anywhere suitable enough.  Tucked between two high cliff faces a cave opened its dark maw from behind a thicket of flora.

Brown eyes flickered to meet Emeline’s lighter, amber pools through the liquid haze the rain caused. The first semblance of a truly genuine smile briefly appeared on Anders’ face as they hustled for the cave.

“Call me crazy,” Anders began, speaking over the din of water spattering across the terrain. “But I’m having what I _think_ is a flashback!”

The elven woman craned her neck to peer inside the unlit cavern. It smelled of musk and mildew, but was, for the most part, dry. “Is that right?”

“Yes,” came the unaffected reply. The blond mage took a few tedious steps inside, relenting enough to use a spell of fire to illuminate the cavern.  “Ah, would you look at that?”

“What is it?” Emeline asked as she moved beside him looking about expectantly.

The human mage bent his head to her tapered ear whispering impertinently. “It’s completely void of grumpy elven apostate hermits who like throwing things at my head.”

“Oh!” The elf huffed and gave her companion a hard shove at the shoulder, which only caused him to laugh.

It was a glorious sound, Emeline thought, for having had Anders in so sullen a mood in the last days gone by. She smiled wanly as she studied him, standing there sopping wet with a ball of flame hovering in his open palm.  The sound of him echoed off the surrounding walls and filled her with the kind of warmth that only fondness of the heart could bring to a person. However, the longer Anders laughed the more concern Emeline found herself having for him.

He laughed so hard that it soon brought tears to the corners of his eyes. Eventually, the flame in his palm shuddered and flickered out as Anders doubled over. His slender shoulders shook as his knees made impact with the stone floor.

“Creators…” Emeline’s brows furrowed as she knelt in front of him. Placing a palm to his cheek, not knowing if the dampness came from his tears or remnants of the rain, she made a soothing ‘shushing’ sound as though trying to quiet the sobs of an infant.

Pained, Anders raised his gaze to her and covered the hand upon his face with his own. His palm was still heated from the spell he’d just held in it. “This is so _stupid_ , Emmy- so, so stupid.”

Shaking her head, unable to fully understand what he meant, Emeline urged him to explain. “What is? What’s bothering you?” She breathed out, hating that his joy had so quickly transitioned into sorrow.

“Nesiri is gone because of  _me_. Geven and Briawen lost their mother because of _me_. If I had never met you they would still be alive-“

“-what?” Emeline withdrew her hand quickly from him as though he had bitten her. She understood he was conflicted, she _knew_ he was still saddled with guilt, but his words had still stung however impersonal they truly were.  “This is not my fault, Anders, don’t you dare insinuate that what happened to them has anything to do with meeting me!”

Rising, the elf began to clear the middle of the cave’s floor now that her eyes had adjusted to the dim glow within cast indirectly from the outside. Her cheeks burned with anger as she brushed away debris that had been blown or dragged in over time. Emeline’s movements were jerky, her hurt showing in every motion as she dumped the kindling they’d been carrying- now slightly moistened- into a pile on the ground.

“Emmy, I meant-“ Anders started, trying to save himself being in trouble with her. Rising from the ground he shuffled forward to stand awkwardly nearby as Emeline worked at starting a fire.

“Save it. I do _not_ care what it is you meant.” She snapped at him, striking the flint repeatedly in an attempt to cause a spark. Her eyes narrowed as the rock struck harder and harder in her frustration but to no avail. “Those bandits may have still found them, you know. They might have killed Dartag, the children, and Nesiri if we had not been there. Or maybe not; maybe all of them would have survived but have lost only some gold and their belongings.”

Her chin tucked down further against her chest, wet dark hair falling to partially obscure her vision. “The point is, _shemlen_ , that nobody knows why these things happen. Nesiri died because of an overzealous Templar trying to prove something. If we had not met, then who knows how it all would have turned out? Maybe you would be dead by now or back in the Circle and Tranquil; maybe I would be nothing but a pile of bones lying at the bottom of a rockslide.”

Shifting his weight, suddenly regretting his choice of words, Anders crouched next to Emeline.

“Or frozen to death in that old cave of yours because you can’t light a fire to save your life?” He quipped quietly, casting a magical flame over the kindling. As it sprung to life casting their shadows over the walls of the small room, his face came clearly into view. “…I’m sorry.”

Throwing down the flint and stone Emeline stood away from him and stubbornly crossed her arms. She refused him a reply, though knew she was likely being much harder on him than necessary. Anders didn’t really deserve it- he was grieving, after all- but he had unwittingly done so much for her. He had drawn Emeline out of a lonely shell,  giving her hope and encouragement; he had taught her that it was alright to trust sometimes, and in that she felt that her heart had become lost to him. He had it, whether he was aware or not.

Hearing him allude that it might have been better to not have met Emeline felt as though Anders had ripped down everything she had gained.

Shoulders sagging, Anders simply stared after the elf. Her form seemed even smaller in the firelight, though the shadow dancing upon the curved wall boasted of impressive size.  Not wishing to relent he eventually moved to stand behind her.

“I feel like it’s my fault, Emeline.” His cadence was tentative and gentle. “What happened to Nesiri could be your fate, too. I don’t…” Anders’ voice caught in his throat and he cleared it before going on. “I don’t know what I’d do if the same happened to you. The Templars don’t know who you are, you have no phylactery for them to trace. If we parted ways now I could lead them off another direction.”

“No.” Emeline pivoted on her heels to face Anders. She shook her head so vehemently that wet strands of her hair wound up clinging to her cheeks. “Absolutely not, don’t even dream of suggesting that to me, again!”

“You could make it to West Hill safely!” Anders insisted; his hands gripped her upper arms tightly. “They’re only after me, they’ve got no way of finding you. Emmy, _please_.”

Defiantly, the elven mage lifted her chin. “You. Promised.”   Upset, her eyes shone in reflection of the tightening she felt in her chest. “We stick together. We’ll both make it, we must.”

Anders ran a hand over his face. His throat felt tight. He did promise, and more than that he could hear Nesiri’s parting words to him. _Take care of her._

Maker’s tears, but wasn’t that what he was trying to do?

“Why together, Emmy?” His fingers moved to brush away the dark strands sticking to the elf’s freckled cheeks.  “There is no way that this works out happily for us both. Chances are you find the Dalish and weasel your way into their clan, then there I am-“

“-still free.” She murmured. “Running wherever it is you want to go. And if not, then it will be the both of us.”

Anders exhaled sharply. “For what good reason could you possibly come up with to keep following my silly ideals?”

At the question Emeline tilted her head to one side and her expression was overcome by confusion. “You _are_ dense, sometimes. How can you not know?”

“Know what?” He blinked, worried that their discussion was turning down a very complicated road.

Giving him a faint smile, Emeline’s features displayed precisely that she thought, sometimes, and for all of his boasting, Anders was quite oblivious.  “My reason is ‘because’.” The elf spoke quietly, a tenor of sadness lacing her words.

“Because?” The blond repeated, and when he saw the way she stared to him- so open, so imploringly- he suddenly understood. “ _Oh.”_

Emeline waited for something more to be said between them, but instead was met with Anders pressing his mouth over her own. He knew, then, what she had meant, or so the elven woman guessed, to have reacted in such a manner. She clung to the man and returned his increasingly needful kisses; she found herself wishing for a clearer answer for them both.

In the meantime, she thought, as their clothing was quickly shed and dropped into a damp heap before they lay together before the flickering fire, ‘because’ would have to do.


	11. XI.

** Day Eight **

****

“Because” had sufficed to keep them together a while longer. Emeline had more than forgiven Anders for unintentionally wounding her with his verbal blunder, having come around with sense that he had been fearful for _her_ well-being.  She admitted to sharing his guilt over what had come to pass with Nesiri, but they had to persevere if only to honor the elven woman’s memory. While it would never reverse the horrors of that night, it was enough to convince the mages to continue.

For as infrequently as they rested their destination still seemed impossibly distant. Traveling over half of Ferelden from the southernmost point to the northern coast, however, without following any of the highways had consumed much of their time. The fact remained that they were quite some way from West Hill, and their bellies were shrinking each day that passed without a proper meal. Without staves to focus an accurate line of attack the mages found they were on the inept side of hunting down the errant Hinterlands Ram, or nug scurrying about the countryside.

Relying on strangers, as they had on the way toward Gwaren, became unthinkable. Who knew what stops the Templars had made? Who knew if innocent farmers might be shown the same ill-favor should any claim not to have seen Anders? He wouldn’t place unarmed strangers in that position.

After some deliberation a decision was reached to make for the nearest outpost. Emeline pulled out their map, so full of creases with as often as she had to refer to it, turning it a few times before pointing to their general location. Her index finger traced a line over the worn material, eyes scrutinizing the legend in the corner to assess how far they needed to go, yet.

“If we continue north-west, then South Reach may only be another few hours from here.”

“ _May_ only be?” Anders queried as he leaned over the elf’s shoulder to study the map.

Emeline hummed in thought, tilting her head from one side then to the other. “Or another half of a day if I’m not reading this exactly right…”

Anders groaned melodramatically, dragging his fingers through the thickening scruff on his face. The elven woman faced him, crossing her arms over her chest as she listened to what inevitably would be a complaint.

“I need a new razor. And socks. My _toes_ are poking out, it’s so uncomfortable.” He tried desperately not to whine, but even he couldn’t deny that his cadence took on that of a whinging child.

Shooting him a stolid stare Emeline could hardly keep from mocking him. “Oh, _Creators_ no, not a hole in your sock! However shall you find the will to go on? Better end it all now, _ma’vhenan,_ there’s no hope for you any longer.”

Pouting slightly, the blond mage trudged forward. “Don’t make fun. A hole in a sock is maddening. It’s right up there with damp smallclothes and a weird pokey thing in your trousers that you just can’t seem to find.” Pausing a moment Anders squinted in Emeline’s direction to add as an afterthought. “What did you call me? That’s a different word.”

Simply smirking at him, giving no reply to his query, the elf snorted softly. “Funny, you had no problems finding the ‘pokey thing in your trousers’ just the other evening.”

Grinning broadly Anders waggled his eyebrows and turned to catch Emeline about her slender waist. “And I never have had a problem with it.” He bent his head forward to kiss her lightly, a muffled chuckle bubbling up against her soft lips as she squirmed.

“You _do_ need to shave!” The elven mage rubbed her chin where Anders’ beard had tickled her skin.

“Told you so, but nobody ever listens to me.” Anders reluctantly slipped his arms away from Emeline and they moved to walk side by side once more.

* * *

 

As initially predicted South Reach sprung up on the horizon roughly three and a half hours later. The mages stopped about a quarter of a mile out to recount their coin, as well as give one another a good once over. They were dusty and travel worn. Emeline had a smudge of dirt that had somehow found its way below her right eye, and her clothing was equally grubby; Anders was grizzled enough for anyone to ignore how lankily he was built and might keep anyone from asking too many questions.

Bantering back and forth a short list of provisions to seek out to make for a fast visit, the pair pushed toward the small village. To their advantage hardly anybody milling about the narrow path through the outpost cared to even bat an eyelash in their direction. A scant few elves ambled about focused on tasks while in the company of humans, making Anders and Emeline a common enough sight to be overlooked. A small woman greeted them amicably, and an old cobbler seated outside of his shop nodded courteously.

“They’re almost _too_ friendly,” Emeline whispered to Anders. She had made a point to draw up the hood of her cloak in an attempt to hide her elven heritage, though it hardly seemed necessary now. Feeling foolish her fingers let the hood fall back, finding it better not to look too mysterious.

Anders glided through the center of South Reach with bolstering confidence and none of the wariness carried by his companion. He was a bundle of frayed nerves on the inside, of course, but his vague smile belied how he felt. Giving in to looking nervous only would make him appear guilty of something.

Brown eyes swept from market stall to market stall; the mages were thankful that anyone was still selling wares so late in the afternoon, but they weren’t about to look a gift horse in the mouth. At last they came across a deeply tanned man in his late thirties who stood beside a low cart. The bed was nearly picked clean, but there were some small bundles of dried, salted meat along with a bucket of small apples.

“Apple for your lady friend?” The merchant tossed one of the shiny skinned fruits between his hands giving them both a toothy grin. “Only two coppers apiece.”

Emeline wandered away from Anders as the blond began to peruse the meager number of other knick-knacks whilst keeping the merchant in menial conversation. The elf moved slowly about the front of the cart to the two horses connected to it. A gelding and a mare, one a few years older than the other but in fair condition, and there were good wheels on the cart- none of them were cracked or splintering.

“How much for everything?” She interjected from beside the strawberry roan gelding; her fingers were absently stroking over the horse’s muzzle and he seemed taken by the attention given.

Both men looked up from their small talk.

“Everything?” Anders questioned. “We couldn’t possibly carry it all.”

Emeline gave the gelding a light pat on the neck, then moved about to offer her palm to the palomino mare.  As the horse lipped her fingers curiously the elven mage smiled sagely. “We could if we had a cart, or even just a horse or two to help with the load.” Her honey colored gaze flickered between the men. “So I will ask again: how much for everything?”

The merchant laughed uneasily. “I can’t sell my horses or my cart, girl! How do you expect me to transport my wares?”

Anders raised a brow- well, the man had made a valid point and he was very interested in knowing just how Emeline planned on negotiating whatever she’d plotted out in her conniving little head.

“With what scarce product you have to offer in comparison to the others that may be the least of your worries.” She replied coolly.

Giving her a disparaging stare Anders tried to silently communicate to the elf _not_ to draw unwanted attention by pissing off someone who had food. Actual food, not berries plucked off of random shrubberies or cold elfroot tea. What in Maferath’s browned trousers was she thinking? They couldn’t drive a wagon down a main highway- it was a sure way to run into Rylock.

The merchant’s face fell. “Business ain’t been what it used t’be.”

Smiling kindly, Emeline dredged out twenty-five gold sovereigns and a scattering of silver coins. “Your wheels are hardly worn down, which may suggest that they have recently been replaced. However, the shoes on your horses are nearly worn down and this tells me you rely on them for work more than just pulling your cart. Business is not just bad for you, my friend, it is failing to the point that you cannot afford traveling for goods. Feeding these creatures alone must be costing you a small fortune as it is.”  

Realizing the devious plan his companion had scared up in only a few moments Anders chimed in. He could be rather convincing, and the merchant was waffling between accepting Emeline’s offer. However, the blond found it rather impressive, not to mention incredibly alluring, that the elf was able to persuade the merchant into considering taking the coin. _That's my girl,_ he smirked to himself.

“You could find a new trade, I’m sure. Maybe even partner with someone else with more…business savvy.”

Relenting, the merchant sighed his agreement: the horses, the food, and the switchblade razor Anders had managed to luck out in finding for a fraction of the coin sitting in Emeline’s palm.  He remarked that the trade was getting tedious, anyhow, and now there was finally reason to turn to another profession.

With some finagling and finesse to saddle and load the horses- the gelding simply called ‘Red’, and the mare called ‘Gilda’, neither meeting Anders’ standards- the mages led their quarry calmly out of South Reach.

Even though their close call with the Templars had left them with no advantages before, the mages would have speed on their side now.

When they had led their newly procured mounts a good half mile from the outpost, each with a lead in hand, Anders found himself studying the elven woman he had grown so affectionate for more than the road ahead.

“You are wicked, do you know that?” He said with soft admiration. “Wicked, and so…smart. How did you even come up with that?”

Emeline flashed an immodest smile before biting into an apple, savoring the crisply sweet flavor- Mother Mythal, when had she last tasted anything so delicious? After swallowing the mouthful the elf playfully replied.

“It’s a gift, what can I say? Whatever would you do without me?”

Anders made to answer, but his voice caught. Maker’s boot heels, what would he do? It wasn’t a thought he even cared to entertain when just two days before he’d been so adamant that they part ways. Instead, he suggested they mount the horses- he on the gelding, and Emeline on the mare- putting more distance between them and Rylock.


	12. XII.

****

** Day Eleven **

The horses stood, tethered just a few feet apart from one another, to a pair of saplings just past a small pond.  Having come out of the Hinterlands after Emeline discovered how far west they had gone- scolding Anders for distracting her from properly reading their map- the pair of mages had found themselves moving through Southron Hills. Their mounts had made all the difference in cutting travel time in half, able to take roads as well as cut across the rolling landscape that had slowed them down by foot.

When they had discovered the pond nestled in a divet of tall grasses and blood lotus it was voted upon- and decided- that they could afford to stop and rest for a while. 

The surface of the water glimmered with the scales of mid-sized silvery fish occasionally leaping into view to catch insects skimming overhead. Feeling somewhat confident that their short rest could be lengthened just a hair, Anders had stood from the bank he and Emeline sprawled out on and began to roll up his breeches. Pushing up his sleeves as well, the blond mage waded into the murky pool until he was submerged to his knobby knees.

He was _going_ to catch a fish, or maybe two- after all, Anders had been quite adept at this as a child.

Twenty minutes into his attempt of scooping his hands into the pond and “just missing” a good catch, he was still insisting it could be done. Emeline looked on with delighted amusement, her knees drawn up to her chin and arms wrapped about both legs as she grinned at the scene playing out before her. By now, the elven woman figured that all the fish had been properly frightened into hiding for all the splashing about Anders had done- but she said nothing. She would let him have his fun, she thought as rekindled fondness for the other mage bloomed within and her tawny eyes glossed over with affection. This was a man tasting freedom, again- living the way any person should, and she wouldn’t dare cut any of those moments short for him if she didn’t have to.

“I could get out and have you shock the water. Little bit of lightning magic and they’ll come popping right up.” Anders half-jested, though heaved an exasperated sigh. The damned fish were making him into a complete liar in front of Emeline, and it was more than irritating to be outsmarted by small, scaled animals. 

He turned, wet hands on his hips, strands of hair loosened from his ponytail and framing his narrow face as he stared impatiently down into the shallow depths.

Emeline snickered, burying her face against her knees until she had settled down. “I thought you were an expert. After all, you boasted your talents so much I was convinced we would have had fillets on a fire by now!”

Ignoring the cockeyed squint Anders gave her the elf continued matter-of-factly. “However, I _could_ murder all of the fish for you- it just seems like cheating. Not to mention wasteful.”

“Free meal for all of the Maker’s creatures, great and small!” Anders raised his hands to rub over his face and then shook his head when he found a smirk marking Emeline’s plum-colored lips. “Alright, I _used_ to be good at this, but there’s a fair chance that over the last few years I’ve gotten a bit rusty. I was a much faster, more limber child than I am now. Fishing and frogging, those were my talents before—well, before magic.”

He searched the water again, taking staccato steps forward here and there as though attempting to corner a fish. “Had a toad called Prince Hopper, once until he gave my mother warts.” Anders chuckled at the memory. “Perhaps I should aim for a toad, instead. They’re a lot easier to catch than fish.”

“If it gives me warts from eating it I’ll never kiss you again.” Emeline threatened, her nose wrinkling at the idea of bumps sprouting on her face and fingers.  She’d had frog legs, before- a delicacy in Orlesian cuisine- but had never been partial.

“Is that right?” Anders started slyly as he slowly moved toward the banks. “I’d still kiss _you_ , warty lips and all.” Smirking, he raised a hand to send a wave of pond water splashing over the elven woman sitting near the grassy edge.

She squealed, sopping wet head to toe, and leapt to her feet. Cursing in a concocted blend of Orlesian and Elvhen, the raven-haired mage charged into the pool, driving Anders back with each kick of her leg. Fountains erupted toward him with the momentum of Emeline’s steps; within minutes the mages were irrefutably drenched from their aquatic battle. Their taunts and insults were followed by peals of shrill laughter as they faced off, walking around the pond’s circumference whilst sending bigger and bigger waves, now propelled by magic, over the others’ heads.

They carried on in this fashion for some time, uncaring that the sun had positioned itself higher in the sky. It wasn’t until two soft plops sounded from a muddy patch on the shore that the mages ceased their attacks and peered interestedly in that direction.

The violent splashing had inadvertently sent a couple of fish launching out of the pond; they flopped and gasped, mouths sucking at the air while the mages stared in astonishment.

“See?” Anders broke the silence, bending to sweep Emeline up by her waist and beneath her knees, carrying her out of the water. “Told you I’m an expert.”

 

 

* * *

 

** Day Thirteen **

To make up for lost time spent, Anders and Emeline had spent the majority of their previous day pushing Gilda and Red to the brink of exhaustion. The mages, so unused to riding in general, were finally forced to stop when they’d become too saddle-sore. Their trek resumed early the following morning, much to the chagrin of both mounts.

As an unspoken rule the pair had decided to alternately walk and ride, taking a more leisurely pace northward through the Southron Hills. Neither would admit aloud that their muscles had ached so much that they _needed_ to walk it off, but both suspected it of the other.

 It was late into the afternoon when a leaning sign staked into soft ground between large rocks came into view. Its arms pointed in three directions, ‘Highever’, ‘Redcliffe’, and ‘South Reach’ scrawled in fading white across the rain-rotted wood strips.  There remained a fair distance to travel, but the words were uplifting, at least to Emeline. It meant, so long as they risked taking a main road, they could reach the split toward West Hill in a matter of a few days.  Otherwise, where the paths diverged might be missed adding more time to their journey.

Either way, the elven woman knew Anders was still being pursued and seeing how much closer they had gotten to their destination bolstered confidence that they’d reach it, after all.

As the hooves of the gelding and mare sounded steadily from behind Anders the mage raised his gaze skyward. The sky was clear, the air was comfortably breezy and sweet- it was almost too good to be true. In all his past escapes from Kinloch Tower he had never been away long enough to do much more than mill about whatever city his legs carried him into. Once, he had made it all the way to Denerim on the back of a merchant’s cart and had wasted his entire time in the brothel before getting caught. A few nights of randy fun, for sure, but this was entirely different.

It was being back on the farm, feeling the grass between his toes, the wind on his face, and submersing his entire self into feeling _alive_ ; human. The past few months were incomparable. He had a beautiful, temperamental woman in his company whom he didn’t wish to use and throw away; the openness Ferelden’s countryside had to offer instead of stifling stone walls. Even though Anders knew Rylock would not give up her trail the mage knew he had more than half a chance of crossing the Waking Sea. From there, he could hide. He could become someone else- anyone but who he was.

Magic was part of him, and there were days Anders had pride in his abilities, but he would certainly give it all up if it meant freedom to live as any other man did.

Still, in the back of his mind it niggled at him that the thought of Rylock hadn’t been a gleam in his eye for the last few days. His mood transitioned slowly, sinking his positivity into a well of apprehension. Cold trickled along his spine; his revelry twisting into a heavy knot in his gut.

Why had he fallen lax in their travels? Anders glanced to Emeline and his anxiety doubled. They were behind schedule after having gotten turned around twice in the past two weeks- trudging along, leading the horses, was not going to cut it for him, anymore.

Halting their progression, Anders motions to the horses while the elven mage casted him a puzzled frown.

“Is there something wrong, _vhenan?_ ”

“Get on- we’re moving too slowly this way.” Anders stated darkly while hoisting himself into Red’s saddle.

Emeline stared furtively up at the blond mage not moving from her position in front of Gilda. “I thought you said we were days ahead…”

He said nothing, his countenance darkening as his brown eyes observed the road stretched ahead.

The freckled elf relented and gripped the saddle horn, one leg swinging over and she sat securely in place. “Anders?”

“I was foolish to think having a few days’ head start made it safe for us. There’s no way to actually know for certain.” He muttered, angry with himself as he dug his heels into the gelding’s sides. Both horses pulled forward, Anders easing Red into a trot and Gilda eventually doing the same. “No matter what, I’ll never be far enough away.”


	13. XIII.

** Day Fifteen **

Emeline snuggled in closer to the man beside her, their cloaks spread over them  as they lay upon the downy grass. Dawn was only just arriving, and the elven woman tried to hide her face in Anders’ chest to stave off the lightening sky’s interruption of her sleep.  Instinctively, Anders curled an arm around his slumbering companion’s back to draw her closer to him. As a snuffling sound met his ears he passed it off as one of the tethered horses chomping at the ground, foraging for something to eat.

However, as the noise grew closer to where the mages had made camp the blond pried his eyes open and turned his head toward it.

A rather large brown bear was nosing through the ashes of the campfire, paw scratching at the ground as it sought out the source of whatever it had scented within the stones.  Anders quietly nudged Emeline awake, placing two fingers on her lips when she began to protest and pointed toward their animal visitor with his free hand. Amber eyes going wide the elven woman slowly sat up and then froze alongside him.

They hoped remaining still would keep from drawing the bear’s attention, and that she would lose interest in their camp and wander away in obliviousness. 

Fortune did not grant them this favor. For the next passing five minutes the wild animal continued to search the camp. When her back was turned to the mages Emeline and Anders moved with deliberation to their feet, trying to remain as silent as possible. However, the hearing of animals bragged superiority over that of any ordinary person; the bear raised her massive head to swivel around in the mages’ direction.

Black, liquid eyes peered into the veil of dawn’s light as her snout worked out what she had been smelling yet somehow seemed to miss in all of her exploring.

“Think we’ve got any chance of fighting her off?” Anders whispered, frozen awkwardly with his cloak draped around his shoulders.

Emeline found she had scarcely drawn breath, and that her nose had developed an inconvenient itch. “Possibly, but do we really wish to stay and find out?”

“A fair point,” the blond murmured softly. “Shall we make a screaming, mad dash for it, then?”

“One problem with that,” the elf frowned, her gaze darting to where their mounts were supposed to have been tethered overnight. “We seem to be missing our means of a swift getaway.”

Sure enough, the place where Red and Gilda had been left was entirely vacant.  Emeline could see where the grass had been bent suggesting which course their mounts had taken. Clods of dirt laid strewn about, as well. She supposed that they had managed to break free when the bear made way into camp, spooked enough to abandon their riders.

Anders watched the animal closely, his eyes dropping to gauge the distance to the rucksacks, miraculously untouched, hidden beneath the prickly branches of a bush. It had been done purposely though Anders was severely regretting placing their things no further than arm’s reach.

Emeline shuffled her feet a few inches; the bear bristled in response and took an offensive stance. Muscles bunched and gathered between her shaggy, earth-colored shoulders as the animal grumbled low without opening her mouth.

“On my count, then?”

Before Anders could muster an answer the bear reared onto her hind legs. Her great claws swiped at the air as it bellowed loudly at the pair.

“Three!” he shouted, scrambling forward to snatch the rucksacks at the straps as Emeline bolted. He ducked his head in time to avoid a nasty scratch then spun to take off after the elf.

Emeline held her hand out as she ran, grasping Anders’ fingers as soon as he caught up to her. He pushed a bit more speed into his strides to fully take the elf’s smaller one, gripping tightly as they followed the direction the horses had appeared to have taken.  

A prayer to Andruil present as a quietude upon her lips Emeline asked the Creator to will the beast to give up her chase. However, the plea remained unanswered and the animal lumbered at astounding speed, roaring only mere yards behind the fleeing mages.

“We need to slow it down!” Emeline risked another look back, nearly sending herself into a tumble when her toe caught on an unseen stone.

“Maker’s balls, don’t fall!” Anders groaned; his arm now sore from being jerked forward in his companion’s sudden forward momentum. 

Twisting, shouldering both rucksacks, he made to focus an icy spell at the animal—but the straps slipped down toward his wrist, having bounced free in his jarring steps. Breaking concentration the blond caught the leather packs before they could drop away from him.

Pulling her hand free from him Emeline twisted around, pausing briefly to fling both of her hands outward, facing the bear on her own. Jolts of electricity flew freely from her fingertips, the Fade bending more easily to her will than it ever had. Her heart pounded, adrenaline coursing through her body as the sparks formed a jagged cage around the giant animal.

The bear’s eyes rolled, its body twitching as its clawed paws went rigid. For the time being, it was stunned and unable to continue its chase.

“Go!” Emeline ordered, finding Anders stopped no more than three strides from her, and she picked up a quick gait through the tall grass.

The horses had been through here, the elven mage realized, finding the stalks curving outward in a wide passage.  Keeping to the wake left by their mounts it did not take longer than ten minutes more to come across a tall hill. Emeline raised her eyes, barely making out stone ruins standing at the crest overlooking the border of the Bannorn. 

Following the stony curve of the hill they discovered the strawberry roan gelding standing just beyond it. The mare, on the other hand, seemed to have left the mages’ company entirely. There was no sign of Gilda anywhere. 

“One isn’t bad. We can make one work, right?” Anders questioned.

Emeline didn’t reply. Not wishing to waste time bantering over the number of horses they _didn’t_ have, the elven woman slowly gestured to the rucksacks kept by Anders. He handed them over, and straight away the other mage’s hand reached inside to draw out a slightly shriveled apple. The fruit hadn’t kept half as well as they’d hoped, but it hadn’t gone rotten just yet.

Red pranced nervously in place, a brown eye rolling in his distress over what had to have been a stressful, frazzling situation for him.

“Easy, _ma falon_.” Emeline offered the apple in an open palm as she slowly sidled closer to the horse with short strides. “You know us… it is alright.”

Nickering softly, Red pricked his ears, his front hooves scraping against the ground. He remained leery, but had begun to calm at the sound of the elf’s gentle voice.

Anders kept diligent watch of the surrounding space. He feared the bear would find them before Emeline managed to rein in the escaped horse, and he wasn’t sure either had enough stamina to outrun the beast once more.  They might need to rely on magic, and while it wasn’t impossible to focus without a staff, it did sometimes cause spells to go errant.

Four more steps closer, Emeline ‘shushed’ Red, the sound soothing from her lips. It hadn’t struck her odd that the gelding hadn’t tried running off until the side of her boot pressed against something solid. Amber eyes darted downward, peeking through the grass to catch sight of a wooden stake with a broad topper buried into the ground. The horse’s lead had been wrapped and secured around it.

“Creators- why didn’t I see…?” She gasped to herself, only just realizing that Red’s lead took an unnatural curve into the grass- something that, had it been noticed from the start, would have tipped the mages off that something was not quite right.

No sooner had she discerned this did Anders’ voice shout her name in warning. Before she could react, Emeline found the blond man lunging at her, pushing her to the ground just as an arrow shot past them. A second fired from above, striking the blond man in the shoulder, ripping through fabric and flesh.

Howling at the sudden explosion of pain lancing through his arm Anders struggled to clear blurry red spots from his vision, his free hand having flown up to his injured appendage.  “…who in the Maker’s name…” he gasped, straining to see who it had been behind the attack.

He had spotted a man upon the hill, but couldn’t make out a face before realizing there was a weapon trained upon Emeline. Anders had acted accordingly, but now he was left wondering.

Recovering from the shove given by her companion the elf righted herself but only managed as far as getting to her knees.  She caught the armored figure ambling confidently down the dusty path curling around the hill.  Behind the brunette woman an archer followed, a bow in his possession; he stayed his hand at the command of his senior, though remained at the ready.

Anders stepped back, squinting against the brightening morning sun. “…Rylock.” The color drained from his face and he retreated further until he was beside the now standing Emeline.

“You have been a slippery one this time, Anders.” Rylock’s cold eyes glinted disappointedly. Without any further preamble the Templar raised her hand, casting a circle about the two mages that instantly drank away their natural mana.

Emeline’s head lolled forward as her hand flattened against Anders’ back, only just aware enough to remain mindful of the arrow protruding from his torso. It was a sensation unlike any she’d experienced. Her body nearly went limp, knees buckling slightly, and the overall feeling was as though her entire store of magic had been spent in a single, powerful spell. Except that it hadn’t been. It was just…gone. The elf could barely even hear the Fade, left only with a tinny sound in her tapered ears.

Anders moved his hand from the arrowhead protruding just below his right collarbone to secure Emeline against him. While it was never a pleasant happenstance, he had not reacted quite the same way in having his magic sapped from him; the blond felt weak, but not enough that he could not steady the elf on her feet.

His brown eyes glowered as Rylock stood a few strides from them. “We really should stop meeting this way. People are bound to talk.” Anders choked past the burning sensation creeping down his arm and chest, managing a mirthless smile. “Arrows, though? We never needed _those_ before. Getting bored with our relationship already? We haven’t passed our five year, yet!”

“Enough!” Rylock shouted, her brows lowering in her impatience. “I don’t have time to hear your prattling petulance, mage.”  She crossed her arms over her chest plate, satisfied for now that they were rendered powerless. “The arrow was not meant for you. Enchanter Irving made it clear, just as he has foolishly bid each time, you are not to be harmed. Your accomplice, however, is not granted the same favor.”

Emeline’s eyes rounded. Rylock meant to have her killed.

The elven mage gazed beyond the other woman at the Templar archer. The lean man looked on grimly, seeming indifferent to the vendetta that his superior carried with her.

“Funny, I doubt the First Enchanter knows a lick about Emeline.” Anders snarled, losing his even temper with the woman he had contended with on so many previous occasions. “So I’m going to wager you’ve put her punishment into your own hands.”

Rylock crossed to them quickly, wrenching Emeline away from Anders’ protective hold and eliciting a sharp yelp from the elven woman.

“This **_apostate bitch_** killed one of my men! A Templar! That is a grievous offense, and you know it!”

“Your **man** murdered our friend! _Vous femme vil!_ ” Emeline screamed, tears shining in her amber orbs. She spat in Rylock’s face, a gob of saliva streaking down the Templar’s cheek.  “He was going to kill Anders, next! I did what _anyone_ would have done!”

Seething beneath a placid mask Rylock flicked away the wetness upon her cheek and spoke so evenly that anyone who didn’t know better might believe the Templar to be in full charge of her emotions.  


“The elven woman was an unfortunate circumstance.”  Her focus moved coolly to the mage she held captive, grip tightening around Emeline’s slender arm. “It does not excuse your actions-“

“Stop this, Rylock!” Anders started forward, the clear, pained grimace crossing over his lover’s face wrenched at his insides like a knife in his back.

What could he do unarmed? Without a staff, and a feeble connection to the Fade he had nothing to use at his advantage. Additionally, the second Templar raised his bow, training it on Anders whilst shaking his head in warning.

Not a good idea. Back down.

“Rylock…” Anders raised his uninjured arm, palm out to show supplication to the woman. “She’s telling the truth. That bastard was going to cut me down and claim I had attacked him. You know that is not me; Knight-Commander Greagoir and Irving would not likely believe it. How would you have explained it? Greagoir would have-“

“-Do not!” The Templar interjected jerking Emeline further away from the blond mage. The elf’s lips parted in another gasping cry, the sharp dig of metal greaves meeting her flesh.

 Rylock sneered. “Do _not_ presume to know what the Knight-Enchanter would do or say, you **_insufferable_** , **_whinging prat_**!”

Her free hand found the tipped pommel of her blade. Fingers sliding further down Rylock wrapped them about the hilt emblazoned with the Templar’s sigil.  “Stand _down_ , Anders. Let me carry out my sworn duty, and I shall make her death a swift one.”

The sword was drawn from the sheath at Rylock’s hip; the stone-faced woman maneuvered it in a flick of her wrist, swinging it forward so the blade directed at the blond man first, and then to the elven mage she next threw to the ground.

Emeline had never thought she’d feel fear like this. Tears streamed down her freckled cheeks, her amber eyes staring wide up at the woman of whom she was at mercy. Silent pleas went to the Creators, begging for her life, for anything- _anything_ to save her from this cruel fate.  Had time stopped? The elf felt as though she had been frozen in that moment, the blade’s point hovering above her heart for an eternity. A deafening roar echoed in her ears.

“Rylock!” The second Templar frantically shouted, breaking the woman’s concentration.

It happened so quickly that the elven mage had nearly missed it. Distracted, the senior Templar had turned her head toward her ally. Anders, seeing his only opening, seized the opportunity to barrel forward at full speed. He used his good shoulder to shove the brunette woman hard, causing her to drop her blade into the tall grass.

“Emeline, up! Now, get up!” The blond shouted, extending his hand to help her stand.

The roaring, as it turned out, had not been a figment of her near death experience. Emeline gawped for a moment at the sight of the bear, _their bear_ , stalking toward the archer. She snarled and snapped, gnashing teeth in the Templar’s direction, backing the man further up the hill as he tried to gain enough ground to take a proper shot.  He called for Rylock once more, his voice raising an octave in his harried state.

Cursing aloud, Rylock sought her sword. “Shoot the bloody thing! Damn you, Farrow, you’ve got a weapon, use it!”  

Emeline scurried forward to where Red remained tethered. The poor animal had been quaking with fear to the point of not even mustering the strength to break free.  Working trembling fingers at the stake the elven mage blinked away the residual salty blurriness.

Anders backed away from Rylock even as she picked up her blade. Farrow shouted still, having loosed two arrows- both sticking out of the bear’s rump but neither doing much to slow the beast’s advances.

“Don’t you dare!” Rylock’s nostrils flared in anger as she realized what was unfolding.

Her quarry shook his head as though he was deaf to her threats. “It’s us or another fledgling recruit. Your choice! Or do you want to explain how you managed to get two men killed on your watch?”

Groaning, the Templar woman took retreating steps toward the hill. “Maker take your blighted hide, Anders!”

Not wasting a moment more he hurried to Emeline’s side, once more swiping up the rucksacks before holding Red steady for the elven woman to swing herself up into the saddle. She clutched the horn in front of her, dropping a hand for Anders to grip and pulled with her remaining strength. He ignored the throbbing in his shoulder, and the fact that his fingers were beginning to go a bit numb, and curled his arm about the woman in front of him.

His fear had almost been realized. He had almost lost her. Holding Emeline tightly as she encouraged Red into a full gallop- which took nearly no effort- Anders rested his head on her shoulder, closing his eyes.

It was far too close a call, and Maker, what if they never made it to West Hill?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Vhenan- elven for 'heart' 
> 
> Vous femme vil -- French/Orlesian "you vile woman"


	14. Chapter 14

** Day Sixteen **

****

There had been scarce opportunity to rest since meeting Rylock and her man just the day before. Anders had pushed Red to the brink of exhaustion time, and time again, ignoring Emeline’s pleas for them to allow the horse some rest. The animal’s coat had become slick with sweat, its eyes rendered bloodshot from exertion.  It seemed the apostate would rather death to their mount than pause long enough to receive treatment for his wound, as well.

Emeline’s words continued to fall on deaf ears until she, finally, had given up her begging and simply clung to the blond as they rode for their destination. 

At some point during the earliest hours of the day she had awoken from light slumber, her cheek pressed against Anders’ back. He was breathing heavily, nearly as labored as Red- the horse’s sides expanding and contracting in an alarming manner. 

“…Anders?” The elf sat straight, finding her companion’s head had lolled forward and his eyes were shut. Asleep, from what she could tell, but his face was ashen. The reins were slack in one palm, while the other dangled at his side.

Her amber orbs flickered from the slumbering mage to their surroundings. Farmland stretched out to either side; fields of wheat stalks swaying in a gentle breeze, bathed in the first light of day went on for acres behind cobbled fences.  Not too far, she caught sight of a figure jogging toward them.

Panic rose as a lump in Emeline’s throat and she shook Anders’ uninjured shoulder. “Wake up—someone is coming, we’ve stopped. Wake up!’’ She hissed into his ear, but to no avail. The notion that he might have actually passed out slowly crept into mind, causing her heart to flutter in heightening anxiety. 

The figure grew closer, waving an arm high in the air as though signaling for her to wait. What other choice did she have? Red refused to budge even as Emeline worked the reins into her hands from behind Anders.

“You folks alright?’’ The approaching stranger called out- a gravelly, male voice meeting the elven woman’s ears.  Reaching the stone fence separating field from road, he peered up at the pair from beneath a wide-brimmed hat.

An older man, on the tail end of middle aged, offered first a concerned furrow of his brows as blue eyes took notice of the arrow shaft protruding from Anders’ body.  He then took stock of their mount, and pressed his mouth into a tight line.

“Run into some trouble, did you? That horse is about ready to collapse, miss. I suggest you both dismount and let that thing rest.”

“…can’t do that.” Emeline breathed, shaking her head slowly before nodding her chin up toward Anders. “He won’t wake up.”

Eyeing her for a moment as though sizing her up, the man gave a curt nod and made his way over the barrier.  “I’ll help. Nasty looking wound he’s got there. Name’s Benning—or just ‘Ben’ if you rather. Looks as though you two could use a bit of help.”

Nostrils flaring delicately, the elf clenched her jaw and quickly looked at the road behind her. It was clear, but for how long she couldn’t begin to guess. All the same, if they didn’t stop for a proper rest then the same result might occur.  Agreeing, she accepted Ben’s offer. Creators take her if Anders would get worse on her watch.

 

 

** Day Seventeen **

 

 “Maker’s bloody balls!” Anders groaned, his eyes rolling back as the elven woman poured steaming water over his bared shoulder.

“Grit your teeth if you must, and shout all you want, but we must keep this clean.” Emeline’s features contorted into a look of concentration as she gently prodded the puckered flesh.

They sat in the small kitchen of the farmhouse belonging to Ben- a farmer they had not come across in their initial attempt to reach Gwaren. It appeared the older man had not heard news of any apostates escaping Templars, giving both mages some hope that Rylock had not taken this particular route during her chase. 

It had been no small feat getting an unconscious Anders off the back of the horse and into the farmer’s house, but once they were inside Emeline had breathed a sigh of relief. They were out of sight, for now, though she didn’t suppose that the phylactery stopped working just because of a few walls around them.  Red had been taken back by a farm hand instructed to pamper the mount until he was fit enough for riding, again. Benning insisted that might not be for another couple of days, but the pair was welcome to stay as long as they needed.

When prompted for names, Emeline immediately had offered up false identities and introduced herself, and Anders, as ‘Ilora’ and ‘Tom’.  It was only a small protection against searching Templars, as a description would certainly quickly incriminate them. Still, it sufficed as some comfort to her.

Anders had awoken, at last, in the middle of the night, disoriented and in a panic. It took a few moments of hushed whispers and reassurances that, for the moment, they were both safe before he had calmed down enough to accept food and water.

Now, seated at the table in Ben’s cramped kitchen, the farmer positioned just across from the pair, Emeline worked at rechecking the damage caused by the arrow with which Anders had been injured. 

“I don’t mean to pry into other folks’ business,” The graying man began, his lips curled into an unreadable smirk as he watched the elf picking splinters from the blond’s flesh. “Though, considering you’re here for a day—what happened to you out there?”

Anders quirked a brow, brown eyes slipping to the side as he silently constructed his response. “We were making our way for Redcliffe. Unfortunately, bandits had other ideas for us. They took off with our supplies, but we managed to salvage one of our horses.”

“And nearly rode him to death,” Ben clinched, clicking his tongue against his teeth. “Redcliffe, you say? Either those bandits ran you far off course, or you need to check a map more often, son. You’re awfully far north of your destination.”  His hand pushed forward a clay-crafted bowl consisting of a foul smelling salve.  “Use that, too- it’ll minimize the scarring.”

Smiling graciously, Emeline pulled free a final splinter from Anders’ skin and began to liberally apply the thick ointment.  “We’re too far north, Tom. I knew we should have asked that merchant we saw.”

Her eyes met Anders’, their depths shining with mischief as she silently communicated that he had best perpetuate their charade.

“The _bandits_ ran us off course, my love; I am certain we _were_ going the right way.”  His lips twitched as he attempted to suppress a smile, doing his best to appear annoyed at the henpecking.

Emeline held his gaze for a beat, her breath having hitched at the term of endearment even in jest. Recovering, the elven woman returned to focusing on treating the injury. “Whatever the matter, we’re going the wrong way. So help me, if we don’t reach Redcliffe by the end of the week, Tom…”

“You sound like my wife, Maker bless her!” Ben snorted in laughter, slapping his knee a bit at the display. “‘Benny!’” he imitated what the mages could only assume was supposed to be the farmer’s significant other- a high pitched, haughty voice. “‘If you just would have marked the map we wouldn’t have wound up halfway to Lothering!’”

He continued to chuckle as Anders grinned a bit at him. “Not married are you? Don’t see too many elves and humans sticking together the way you do, though can’t see much wrong with it like some folks might.”

Anders barked out a short laugh. “Married?! What, to _her_?” He jerked a thumb in Emeline’s direction, ignoring the significant, indignant squint he received from the elf. “Couldn’t get her to stay put long enough to rope her in for good—ouch! Andraste’s knickerweasels!”

Feigning a sickeningly sweet smile, Emeline moved one palm off of his chest, shaking off the residual crackling current from her fingers before Benning noticed anything. “Stop squirming, _dear_. If I don’t do this properly then you might develop an infection. I’d hate for you to lose your arm- we both know you favor that hand.”

This started a new bout of uproarious guffawing from the farmer. “Spirited lassie, isn’t she? Elf or no, you keep your Ilora near—good woman you got there, Tom.”  He stood, not catching the sobering expressions passing between the two apostates. “Now- how about some stew?”

 

** Day Nineteen  **

They had taken their leave of Benning’s farm with full bellies and more sleep under their belts. The farmer had convinced them to leave Red behind as he’d taken a liking to the horse, and had a mind that the mount could use a bit more rest even though his riders were ready to depart. Instead, he offered them a trade for his old plow-puller. It was a mix breed beast, tall, and sturdy, with a wide back; being quite used to working long days, Ben insisted that, while slow, Brody was a dependable steed. He’d get them where they needed to go.

Brody plodded along the dirt road at a brisk, even pace. The mount proved everything remarked by Farmer Benning, though Anders would have preferred a hastier clip. 

“I’m beginning to wonder if West Hill will even have a ship ready when we arrive,” Anders murmured, nestling his chin to the small dip where Emeline’s shoulder and neck met. His hands rested lightly upon her thighs from his position behind her atop the workhorse.

 The elf had insisted on taking the reins for a while, and the blond had to admit he rather liked the idea of being able to keep a hold of her as they traveled.  Somehow, it made him believe he could keep Emeline safer that way.

“More doubts?” She turned her head just far enough to listen for a reply. “We can’t continuously change our path, or we’ll never get anywhere.”

A quiet huff escaped Anders as he slid his arms about her slim waist. “I can’t claim to have been the best student while in the Circle, but I did pay attention _sometimes._ One of our history books explained that the fortress in West Hill is mostly used for storage, these days. There isn’t much of a population, if I remember right. What if there isn’t a ship scheduled to sail any time soon?”

Giving this some thought, Emeline shrugged one shoulder. “What if there is?” When he didn’t speak, she exhaled slowly to expel the tightness forming in her belly. “Would you rather we go somewhere else, Anders? If it is what you want then say it now while we still can change our minds without the Templars so close to our backs.”

The answer never came.  From the opposite direction, a band of four traveled the road chatting among their own; they were nondescript, but it was due to their lack of character Anders kept close vigil. A young woman at the fore of the group gave the riders a broad, friendly grin and nodded her head.

“Good afternoon- nice day for a ride, isn’t it?” She greeted and resumed speaking with the others without waiting for any returned words from either mage. “Where do you suppose those Templars were headed? Never saw so many outside of the Chantry, before.”

Emeline stiffened, though refrained from reacting further as Anders kept his arms firmly about her waist. Slightly tightening her grip on Brody’s reins, she slowed the horse only a fraction so they might hear more of the passing conversation.

One of the men harrumphed. “Thought I heard one of ‘em say something about Highever. I’d bet my boots there’s an apostate running about. It might even be a blood mage if there’s that many Templars.”

“Maker’s breath, don’t say such things! Could you imagine a blood mage inside Teyrn Cousland’s city?” Another voice chimed, though the voices were becoming more distant.

“Well what else would call for it? One measly apostate wouldn’t require so much effort, would it?” The gruffer voice continued, and the rest was soon lost as the mages had put too much length behind them.

“Anders…” Emeline whispered; dread growing within her even upon feeling his cheek pressing reassuringly against hers.  “We can’t go to Highever.”

“Guess that decides it for us. West Hill it is.” Anders murmured in return.

Almost a full hour later, Brody had been redirected at another crossroads for their final destination.

 

** Day Twenty-One **

****

** West Hill **

The great fortress of West Hill rose above the quiet village below its bulk, tattered banners flapping in the warm air salted by the channel flowing beyond the cliff’s edge. In all of her traveling, Emeline had never once set foot inside the fortress, and for good reason. It seemed shrouded in shadow, an unsettling stillness as though all of its occupants had deserted it. Far different from Denerim, where at least it was expected one might run into trouble, or dodgy folks in the alleys, the fortress was the type of place where a wrong turn left a person’s fate entirely to their Maker.

Brody clopped through the gates, the riders passing the guards who merely nodded their acknowledgement. What neither mage saw, however, was how those same guards also nodded to one another once the horse had carried his riders further down the cobbled path.

“I can’t believe we’re here,” Emeline breathed, steering toward stables located just on the edge of the market square where only a few citizens wandered almost aimlessly, as though they had just gotten out of bed in a bleary-eyed stupor.

A stable boy met them as the mages dismounted; Anders asked to meet with the youth’s master to possibly negotiate a trade of the horse for coin. Short minutes later, the thin boy returned with a balding man who didn’t look interested in what a couple of travelers might have to offer him.

“What is it you’re wanting, now?”  He snapped and his grey eyes narrowed as he assessed the companions.

Anders faltered, suddenly intimidated by the brutish man. His hands looked like thick steaks attached to ham hock arms. Emeline, however, quickly took over the situation with a confidence she did not truly have.

“Ser, we were seeking a trade if you would. We’ve plans to travel across the Waking Sea, and none to return, so there is no further use out of our old Brody we can possibly get.” She smiled almost serenely, stepping closer to the broad-shouldered man as he impatiently listened.

“What’re you heading that way for? Why can’t you take the beast with you?”  He demanded, resting his meaty fingers on his hips.

The elf motioned toward Anders. “We lost our farm to infestation. Dratted nugs—“

“-Aye, I hate the things…” The stableman agreed with a grumble, his posture relaxing in finding common ground- however vague- with the strangers before him.

Emeline gave him a mirthless laugh. “Yes, so you can sympathize with our losses, perhaps?” She persisted, beguilement written across her face.

“We gathered the last of our savings and are headed to the Free Marches with a dream to start anew. My husband has family there willing to take us in, but they’ve no gold to spare, so bringing old Brody along just isn’t possible. He’s a reliable plow-horse, and not _so_ aged that he cannot work a good few years to come. Just have a look.”

And so he did. In the end, after some further, clever coaxing and haggling on Emeline’s part—the stable master offered a few gold pieces and some silver for the horse.  Once more, Anders was colored impressed by the elven woman’s ability to manipulate a conversation so the end result worked to their advantage. It left him wondering, briefly, if she had ever done so to him without realizing it; then he realized that it didn’t really matter, as he was too invested in the freckled mage to care how she had managed to win his heart.

Delight filled him as they strolled on through the square, enough so that even the dreariness of the fortress could not overshadow what he felt. One arm wrapped tightly about Emeline’s shoulders, squeezing her to him while she beamed up at him after fingering through the coin purse in her palm.

“Nearly home free, aren’t we?” He murmured, lowering a gentle kiss to her forehead.

She shut her eyes, basking in what felt like a defining, victorious moment. “It ought to be more than enough to pay for our passage. I was thinking we might buy a few rations of food in case what Ben gave us isn’t enough to last us.”

Her heart was swelling. If what the Witch, Flemeth, had informed her of the Lavellan clan was true then it was only a matter of time before Emeline would face the family her mother had left behind. Though, it pained the elf to consider the clan’s acceptance of her would mean leaving Anders’ side she was not quite ready to deal with it. That could be handled later. It was not as though the Dalish would be waiting at the Kirkwall docks.

In all of her daydreaming, Emeline had become oblivious to their surroundings. The sparse conversations within the marketplace had washed away as images of a wizened Keeper welcoming her with open acceptance filled her head. It was not until Anders gave her a light nudge that she lifted her amber gaze to him once more.

“Look, Emmy, just ahead.” His mouth stretched into a crooked line, free hand pointing to of what he spoke.

Three ships, sails reaching toward the sky as though keeping the very clouds above aloft, rocked lightly in the wake of gentle waves lapping at their hulls. It was the single most beautiful thing the elf had laid eyes upon all day. 

“What are we waiting for?” Emeline queried, somewhat dazed by the idea that after a few close-calls they were actually standing so near the thing that would grant Anders’ freedom, and her years-long quest for family.

They resumed walking, strides growing wider, and wider until the elven woman was poking her companion in the side, giggling that his impossibly long legs were going to leave her behind. Anders swept in, lifting Emeline up into his arms.

“I’ll just have to carry you, then, madam.” He felt nearly giddy with excitement as his boots stepped off stone and dirt and onto solid wooden planks. Inhaling deeply, allowing the salty wind to infiltrate his senses, Anders lowered his face nearer to the woman he held.

Her arms wrapped firmly about his neck as she accepted the soft kiss he placed upon her lips. When the contact was broken, Emeline rested her chin upon his shoulder, hugging him tightly. His breath was warm against one of her tapered ears.

“Emmy, I want to say…” Anders paused, maneuvering his elven companion to her feet without breaking their embrace. He ignored the reproachful and confused looks of the dock workers passing them by, uncaring of how they might construe the couple.  “I wanted to tell you –“

“-no.” Emeline murmured against him.

Surprise registered across the blond’s face, his visage fading from the tenderness he had been attempting to share with her.  “No?”

“No…Creators, _not here_ , not now. _Anders.”_ Emeline slowly drew back from him, hands gripping so strongly against his shoulders that her fingertips could have bruised the flesh beneath his clothing. Her eyes had gone wide, stricken with astonished incredulity.

Ice cold apprehension trickled down the back of Anders’ neck. There was only one reason he could think of that the elven mage might be so abruptly frightened. The market noise had died into silence, and a clank of metal on stone echoed clear across to the docks.

Jaw set, he turned slowly and kept his hands visible as he faced Rylock. Behind her, a line of four other Templars stood, blocking the way back through to the gates.  Those who had been milling about the square going about their daily lives had shoved themselves to the perimeter of the market—some hiding behind stalls and watching with rapt attention.  Emeline moved up beside him, her hand finding his and holding it so fiercely that her knuckles had gone white.

“Ah, so you found me, again.” Anders quipped weakly. He felt light-headed, as though none of this could possibly be real.  He was in the Fade, this was a dream, and at any moment he’d wake up with Emeline curled against his side out in a field. They hadn’t really reached West Hill, not yet.

Rylock’s eyes narrowed into cruel slits. “For the final time, yes. I tire of this chase, Anders, let it end here.”  One gauntleted hand rested threateningly upon the pommel of her sheathed blade. That it remained undrawn spoke that orders to return her charge to Kinloch alive were still in place.

Brown eyes looked over his shoulder at the ships, and then slowly returned to the Templars. Along the way, his gaze sighted archers standing atop a few of the buildings.

“The Waking Sea is not like Lake Calenhad. You would drown before getting far.” Rylock paced forward casually, as though speaking with an old friend.

“Just let it go!” Emeline supplicated, appealing to _any_ shred of mercy or sympathy the stern woman might have.

Anders released her hand, and stepped forward as his defeat became obvious. “Be gentle, I bruise easily.”

Rylock smirked ruefully, though Emeline would have nothing of surrender. “What are you doing?! You can’t just give up! All this time—Anders! We’re so close- just fight.”

He turned his head to look upon her, drinking in the sight of her freckles, the shape of her face, and the way her raven hair seemed to always fall into her lovely tawny eyes. “I’m sorry.”  It was all he could say, though it weighed on his chest that he could not go down fighting.

As Rylock lifted her hand to negate his magic before taking him into custody a sharp cry burst from Emeline; the elf rushed forward, grabbing the Templar woman’s arms with an electric crackle.

“Don’t you touch him!” She screamed, holding on even as Rylock grimaced and gritted her teeth at the painful currant flowing through her.

“Emmy, no!” Anders lurched forward in an attempt to draw the elf away, but it was too late.

Rylock staggered back, wrenching away from Emeline before the magic overwhelmed her body, and drew her sword in spite of the tingling webbing through her limbs.

“Stop! Don’t- Rylock, you don’t have to do this!” As the situation spun quickly out of control, Anders found himself pushed to the ground, not having seen the Templar stationed to his left. His mana drained almost instantly as his knees dug into the wood so hard he had shards of it piercing through his trousers.

Blood pounded in Emeline’s head, her ears clogged by the sound of it rushing through her veins as she backed away from the female Templar. There was no way out, and Anders’ further imploring to just give up did not seem like an option. She would not bow down to anyone simply because she was made differently.

Lifting her hands, the elven woman walked a broad circle around Rylock, wondering why none of the others had attempted to strip her of mana. Heat spread across her palms, growing in its intensity as hatred burned and roiled from within her core.

The archers upon the roof stretched their bowstrings until their weapons audibly creaked. Anders could only watch in horror, mouth agape but no words escaping as he realized what was about to occur. He struggled to stand, but the Templar behind him held firmly, disallowing the mage to gain any ground.

Rylock smirked, twirling her blade as she witnessed the flames licking across Emeline’s hands. “You’re adorable. I’m going to enjoy snuffing out that fire.”

“You won’t have me, you won’t have him!” Emeline cried out, drawing her hands apart as a fiery arc formed over her head. She stepped back, preparing to direct the spell full on at her opponent—just as her arms began to swing forward, the momentum was interrupted.

Twin arrows tore through the elven mage’s chest from above, her body jerking from the impact. The spell dissipated arms falling to her sides as the concentration was broken.

“Emmy! _Emeline!”_ Anders found his voice, wetness stinging his eyes and blurring his vision as he watched her fall to her knees.

She stared up as Rylock towered over her, a grim look of satisfaction darkening the brunette Templar’s pallid features.  Emeline parted her lips though she couldn’t speak, shock setting in. Rylock gripped the elven woman’s jaw, nearly crushing it as her free hand drew back. Unfeeling eyes met dimming amber as a malevolent grunt left the Templar, the silverite blade piercing through her captor’s middle.

Withdrawing the blade, Rylock turned away, allowing Emeline’s body to slump carelessly to the stones beneath them.  Anders howled in protest, struggling harder to get to her, not believing the way the elf’s small body laid so lifelessly. Not believing it was her blood staining the ground crimson.

 The remaining Templars marched forward as Rylock turned toward Anders, standing over him. “Stop your sniveling—the little elf bitch had it coming.” When he did not comply, her attention shifted toward her officer keeping Anders at bay. “Shut him up. It’s a long way to Kinloch, and I am not in the mood for his whining.”

Obeying the orders given to him, the steel-plated man brought down the pommel of his own blade swiftly down over the blond mage’s head. Anders slumped forward, catching one final glimpse of Emeline’s prone figure before everything went black.


	15. Chapter 15

** Epilogue **

** Kinloch Tower, Ferelden **

****

Solitary confinement might have been more appealing if not for the utter lack of things to keep his mind occupied. The torchlight against the walls was terrible for shadow puppets, and those were hardly worth making without an audience.  Well, save perhaps for the tabby cat that would occasionally visit, though Anders suspected Mr. Wiggums was only placating him by pretending to take interest.

Weeks had gone by since his capture in West Hill, or so he guessed as there were no windows to tell him how many sunrises and sunsets he had missed.  First Enchanter Irving had kowtowed to the Knight Captain’s scathing review of how much trouble Anders had given his Templars this time around, and for once more than a slap on the wrist was deserved. His ‘apostate accomplice’ had caused the death of one of their men, and it could not be left to go lightly.

Irving had apologized, and sentenced the blond to a year of solitary confinement. That Anders had absolutely nothing to say for him, no witty remarks or charming antidotes, struck him as unusual. The mage had retreated within the very shell he kept when first arriving to the Circle as a boy. Clearly, he was hurting over the young elven apostate with whom he’d kept company.  She was an entirely different matter, however, and Rylock’s reports would be considered while handling it.

Back against the cold wall, Anders dangled his feet over the edge of his bed, ignoring the grumbling of his stomach. It felt as though it had been hours since his last meal, though the reality of it was he’d shared it with the cat. If he kept feeding the mouser, maybe it would continue to come around. Else, he figured he might lose his mind without some kind of socializing.

“…see, Emmy? Cats are fantastic…” He whispered to the shadows before taking a long, deep breath and let it out slowly. It made his chest hurt to think of her. His dreams were plagued by the scenes at the docks of West Hill. Sometimes, he preferred not to sleep at all.

The grinding of metal brought Anders out of his thoughts, his chin jerking upward as the grate covering the barred window of the door barricading him inside slid open.  A Templar with kind, honeyed eyes and curled, sandy blond hair peeked inside.

“I’m still here, Cullen.”  Standing away from the bed, Anders lumbered forward to grip the bars. “And, much to Greagoir’s chagrin, I’m sure; I’m still alive and breathing.”

The young Templar recruit fumbled a bit with the keys in his armored fingers, remaining silent as the blond mage continued speaking. “How is Solona? Are you still pining for her touch?”

A violent flush of red appeared on Cullen’s cheeks as he found the key to unlock a slot in the iron door, pushing a tray containing a hearty meal through it, followed by a skein of water. Closing the slot, the young Templar met Anders’ gaze though he remained silent.

“Oh, an extra roll. You _do_ like me.” Anders smirked, though it quickly faded as the grate began to slide back into place. “Wait! Wait- Cullen, please. One moment?”

The grate halted as the Templar waited for whatever further teasing might befall him.

However, the mage’s face had grown sullen. “I’m sure you’ve heard everything that happened in West Hill, right? Rylock has always liked boasting about her successes in capturing me.”

A brief nod confirmed this; Anders continued. “Have you…heard anything about the elven mage I was with?” Even in the worst of his nightmares, he held onto the sliver of hope that somehow Emeline still lived.

Cullen seemed to war with himself over the right thing, and whatever orders he might have been given to not share any information with his charge. Finally, he shook his head, looking to Anders from the corner of his eye.

“She is not here. It’s all I know, though from the wounds she sustained, it is highly unlikely she could have survived it. I’m—ah…I’m sorry.” The grate shut soundly, locking into place.

Anders turned, sliding down to the floor as he let the notion sink in. He had failed her. He had broken his promise to Nesiri, he had broken his promise to Emeline—and now she was gone.  Anger flared up within him, a frustrated, anguished cry escaping him as he kicked the tray across the room.

“I told you…I told you, Emmy.” He covered his face, drawing up his knees as he at last allowed the grief to overcome him.

For that night, and many more to come, Anders would internalize all the ways he should have prevented any of it from happening.  This was why mages never dared to fall in love.

And didn’t he tell her, didn’t he warn—staying with him would mean the end of her.

 

 

 

**Author's Note:**

> **Elvhen Translations**  
> Ar'din nuvenin na'din --- I do not want/wish to kill you
> 
> Fenedhis-- A common elvhen curse
> 
> Fenedhis lasa -- variation of a common elvhen curse
> 
> Shemlen/Shem --- Literally means 'quick one', generally spoken to humans by the Elves, sometimes as a derogatory term. As the elves used to walk as immortals they viewed the other races as short-lived. 
> 
> Elgar'nan --- The All-Father of the Elvhen Creators. His name is sometimes invoked while in a state of disbelief.


End file.
